


Air Supremacy

by kabrox18



Series: Air Power [2]
Category: Doom (Video Games), Transformers: Prime
Genre: M/M, Mention of Canon Deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:35:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24350668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kabrox18/pseuds/kabrox18
Summary: Skyslayer's 'new friends' have a lot of issues. Some of which he sets out to resolve in his typical manner; guns-ablaze and music loud.Some of them are alittlemore delicate than that.
Relationships: Doomslayer/Megatron, slayer/ratchet friendship
Series: Air Power [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758067
Comments: 58
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

Being officially instated as Decepticon second-in-command has its perks. Despite the paperwork and overall workload, he could get into places he couldn’t before. He could overrule lower ranks—although he rarely exercises that power. His favorite thing, though, is how Megatron is the only one who can order him around now.

Like now, with the ping hanging in his vision. _Meet me, bridge. Five Earth minutes._

He strides through the halls, ignoring the vehicons who side-eye him uneasily. The door slides open for him, Knockout giving him a nod in passing.

“Skyslayer. I see you received my request to meet me at the bridge.” Megatron turns. “I’d like for you to meet our newest crew addition, and your partner.”

“Partner?” He feels his wings prickling. Something feels wrong about that phrasing.

“Dreadwing. This is Skyslayer.” Megatron gestures between them. They give each other a cursory glance, eyes narrowing.

“...Am I being replaced?”

“Not at all. I wanted to try a new method of splitting the responsibilities of second-in-command between you.” Dreadwing leans in, lowering his voice.

“I _should_ be replacing a bucket like you, but Megatron seems fond of you for whatever reason. Consider yourself lucky to rest in his good graces.” To add insult to injury, he offers a hand to shake. Skyslayer narrows his eyes, shaking it and letting his grip be felt.

“Keep that up and I’ll knock your teeth in.” He keeps his own voice low.

“You don’t intimidate me.”

“Oh, I don’t? Let’s hope that changes, because that means you’re underestimating me.” His voice rises slightly, and he digs his claws into Dreadwing’s hand.

“Enough,” Megatron orders, breaking them up. “I will not have infighting between my officers.” They pull apart, glowering at each other. It seems they both have some aggression to take care of. It gives the warlord an idea—which is interrupted by more arguing.

“Kiss my tailpipe,” Skyslayer huffs to Dreadwing.

“Watch your mouth before I ruin it,” he retorts under his breath. Megatron frowns at them both.

“Both of you are off duty until you can learn to work together,” he says, waving them off. “I suggest you spar off this aggression. _Without_ irreparable damage.”

“Master,” Dreadwing calls, starting to protest this grounding.

“I meant it,” he growls in response. “This means you as well, Skyslayer. Find a way to get along or I will replace both of you with _Starscream.”_

They stand there a moment longer, sizing each other up even as they’re dismissed.

—

Skyslayer had taken off to brood, skulking around the cliffside clearing he and Megatron sparred at. He’d circled it several times in altmode before finally landing atop the edge of the cliff, overlooking the area.

He kneels, spying animals and movement. His laserlike vision provides a crystal-clear view of the small valley below, and he watches birds flitting amongst the heavy pine boughs. A family of deer shyly meander along the edges of the forest, picking the softest greens. He settles back on his haunches, enjoying the peace. He even sees a rabbit, tiny and fluffy, bounding through the shrubbery.

A pleased rumble starts in the depths of his chassis, but quickly fades when radar pings an airborne contact. He looks up, scanning the cloudless blue sky and scowling when none other than Dreadwing swooped in, landing with only a slight skid. Red eyes meet his, and narrow.

“Soundwave was right.”

“He usually is.” Skyslayer straightens, leg-struts creaking slightly at sudden movement after being so still. He folds his arms, keeping his kibble angled in cool neutrality. Dreadwing is doing the same. At least they are making an attempt at civility.

“Megatron also mentioned you would be here. Why?” The jet ambles up to his side, looking down to the clearing.

“I like it here.” He ignores their proximity. Radar pings him again, and he closes it off. Laserbeak comes by, chittering. Skyslayer politely offers an arm up to the symbiont, looking to Dreadwing. “Soundwave is watching now. Best behavior.” It’s snarky.

“That’s no way to talk to older mecha.”

“Just because my chassis is young doesn’t mean my spark is.” He narrows his eyes slightly. Laserbeak interrupts them with a recording, piped from her master.

“ _I suggest you spar off this aggression. Without irreparable damage.”_

“Right.” Dreadwing chuckles, gesturing to the valley below. “Let’s.”

“Age before beauty, jetbrains,” Skyslayer says, but laughs as he lets Laserbeak go, diving to the clearing and landing neatly. Dreadwing is right behind him. He turns, rolling his neck casually. “Sparring. Right.” Slayer rolls his shoulders, too, and meets Dreadwing’s eyes as he flicks his claws in a little _come-get-me_ taunt.

Predictably, Dreadwing charges. Unpredictably, though, he’s collected about it. Not a blind fool like Breakdown, then. He deflects the first swing, admiring the power behind it before he deals his own attack. The punch lands and he feels satisfaction coil in his spark at the shocked look written all over that insufferably smug gold face.

Dreadwing picks up fast. Block this jab, deflect that; he’s smart enough to know that Skyslayer’s blows mean business. Backed by the force of a freight train and aimed by that familiar flier accuracy, it makes it a challenge to keep the attacks from connecting. But he also notices a pattern.

The majority were blunt. Punches, knees, even an attempted headbutt. He rarely utilized those lethal talons; a mistake on his part. He also favores upper body, preferring to use his hands and forearms. That makes things easy.

Dreadwing dodges a hook, quickly grabbing one thick wrist and twisting, looping it back and jamming it against the junction of his wings. Skyslayer snarls, a mix of pain and rage coloring the sound. He kicks backward, hard enough it nearly crumples Dreadwing’s leg armor, sending him back a step—just enough for him to rip his arm free of his grasp.

He’s good and stunned when the other arm comes around like a club, knocking his head aside hard enough he sees static. He ducks, though, tackling Skyslayer through the gut and enjoying the grunt it earns. He slams him back, turning to attack again.

Something straight out of the Pit meets his ears. He blinks in shock, reflexively blocking a momentum-fueled punch and feeling the impact jolt every joint in him. He doesn’t have time to focus on the ache because he’s moving again, left hook, dodge the grab, barely escape those claws. 

Dreadwing doesn’t have time to react when Skyslayer grabs him, one hand at the meeting point of his neck and shoulder, other at his jaw. There’s the threat of a line snapping, gears being ripped apart, but the pain never comes. They’re just frozen like this. He can see the blaze of hate and something else in Skyslayer’s red gaze, but the hands drop.

“I could have killed you,” he says. “I win.” Dreadwing drops his head in a shameful bow, rubbing the spot as if to check everything was intact.

“What was that?”

“I usually behead knights that way. Come from the left and pull at just the right angle. The tendon pulls from the bone and cartilage gives way. It’s particularly bloody.” He mimes the action, showing the precise grab and _rip._ “Sometimes there’s enough to coat my whole front.” There’s something _pleased_ in that.

“You kill organics?” He sounds puzzled.

“Demons,” he corrects. “Used to. I spend most time on the _Nemesis_ now.” He chuckles though, darkly. “The real reason I got promoted is because Megatron liked how I kill.”

“And he’s witnessed it?”

“Oh yeah.” He laughs, properly now, and does the most bizarre thing. His mask moves aside, and he sticks his ruddy tongue out, lifting his hands in some strange signal. “Rip and tear.” He laughs again, then suddenly runs past, leaping into his transformation and taking off.

“...I have many questions for Megatron,” Dreadwing mumbles, thoroughly confused.

—

“Just once,” he pleads. “Dreadwing got me fired up. I gotta go in—“

“You are well aware you are grounded and off duty. You’re lucky I even let you go to that clearing,” Megatron grumped.

“Come _on,_ Megatron.” The warlord rolls his eyes upward to the heavens, heaving a mighty sigh.

Ever since Knockout implanted the experimental cortical psychic patch—which worked flawlessly—he’d also been more _chatty._ That was thanks to the slew of other repairs and modifications performed on the bomber. Megatron wished he’d go back to being the stoic, clipped-speech type instead of this nagging little scraplet who constantly requested groundbridges into Hell.

Primus save him.

“No, Skyslayer. Orders are orders. You best follow them.” In an effort to distract his second from further begging, he eyes a blue scuff on his shoulder armor. “You haven’t been to Knockout.”

“No, because I want to go—“

“Did you cause any permanent damage?”

“No!” He sounds offended. If it was because he kept getting interrupted, or because he was too loyal to do such a thing, Megatron wasn’t sure.

“Good.” He turned, looking to Soundwave, who glances over at Skyslayer before starting a video clip from Laserbeak.

Megatron gives a pleased squint as he watches, teeth flashing in a brief grin before vanishing beneath his typical flat expression.

“You won,” he observes, calmly.

“I did.” Soundwave skips to his exit, and he has the wisdom to sink a bit in embarrassment. “Oh. You got that too.”

“I did,” his own voice repeats at him. He buries his face in his hands, wings sagging.

“Interesting. Why are you so ashamed? I found that most entertaining. Your enthusiasm is endearing.” He watches wings clamp flat to his back as he stalks out, clearly too embarrassed to even come up with a response. Megatron gives an amused little noise, glancing to Soundwave. “Send that to my personal terminal. The whole recording.” Soundwave nods, turning away.

—

He sits atop the deck, perched precariously on an outcropping of hull, overlooking the world. He notes the tiny shifts of wind. Heavy footsteps come up, below and behind. He ignores them; that is, until they come up beside him.

He lifts his head slightly, glancing over. Megatron. He sighs, dropping his head again.

“I didn’t take you to be the sulking type,” the warlord says. He sits too.

“You seem to have a lot of misgivings about me.”

“Not many. You are actually remarkably predictable.” He looks up again, eyes narrow. He just chuckles lightly. “Not in combat, mind you. Even Dreadwing was thrown for a loop. I must say I was impressed by your performance. As usual.”

“As _usual?”_ he echoes, surprised.

“Yes. I appreciate your skill. You impress me, Skyslayer.” He can’t come up with a response to that, and looks back over the world. They sit in silence for a while, before that now-familiar rumble starts up again. “I think this is the longest you’ve been quiet since Knockout fixed your vocoder.”

“Being able to freely talk is pretty nice,” he admits. “I like being quiet, but I feel so… like I have to talk as much as I can, in case I don’t get another chance.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” A long silence. Skyslayer looks to him searchingly for a beat, then tips his head.

“I never told you the story of how I lost my voice, did I?”

“No. I had Soundwave leave us be. You may tell it if you wish.”

“No surprise, it started in Hell…”

—

It was the early days. He’d reacquainted with his body, his new strength and speed. The learning curve was something of a problem, but he couldn’t do much about it. Unfortunately, it would cost him.

Summoners, a trio—one had a different head-shape, growths of twisted bone pulled out from its skull—appear before him. Taunting him.

He charges, slaughtering his way through everything they throw. He even manages to take one down, splitting its ornamental head against the dusty brown rocks of Hell. The other scorches a path up his arm, branding in glyphs. A curse. His arm feels heavy, numb, but he still jams the super shotgun into that screeching mouth, turning everything from the neck up into mist.

Another curse, along his other arm. He beheads a knight despite it. Something, vines-chains- _teeth_ leap at him, grabbing his sluggish arms, wrapping round, biting in. The final summoner cackles at him, shrill and painfully loud.

The Slayer’s mark burns into the meat of his chest, blisters arising immediately around the raw flesh. More of whatever it is chain him down, and nimble claws drag scar-shapes into him. Wicked incantations fill his ears, and those hands come to his throat.

His vision blacks from pain, and for a while he’s numb. He awakes, jammed into a tiny, rocky structure. He can’t stand up straight in it, nor can he see past the end of his own nose. He stretches his arms to feel his way forward, only for unbelievable pain to lance through his shoulders, agony forcing them back down. He chokes on noises, no words coming out. 

His throat burned equally, and his mouth felt empty. He tried to lick his lips, to get some kind of other sensation around the pain only for nothing but phantom tingling to present itself.

He realizes, dully, that they’ve ripped his tongue out. Somehow, that doesn’t upset him. He just inhales, steadying himself, and reaches out hesitantly to try and escape.

—

“You were never… repaired?”

“No. It’s not really that simple. But, even then—tongues aren’t _vital._ They don’t help me kill demons. So it didn’t matter.” He shrugs, then laughs mirthlessly. “ _You_ try not being able to talk for who-knows-how-long, then suddenly be able to talk freely. It’s a damn rush.”

Megatron stares at him a long, long time. Almost to the point where he’s uneasy.

“It will not happen again,” he says, suddenly—staunchly. No room for argument there. “If you have any problems, you tell Knockout. If he doesn’t repair you, I’ll scrap him myself.” 

“Woah. Okay.” He holds his hands up, surprised by the intensity.

“I will not have _my_ Officers sitting on such an easily fixed problem. Optimus may, but I will _not,”_ he repeats. He stands, a hefty expulsion of air leaving his vents. “Your grounding is lifted,” he says, waving dismissively. He stalks off, and Skyslayer stands, puzzled.

  
He’s never been so aggressive in _caring._ It is strange. But, his no-fly is off, and he has a sneaking idea forming. Dropping a ping to Soundwave to let him know he is leaving the _Nemesis,_ he takes off.


	2. Chapter 2

Starscream is lurking around the husk of an old vessel. He is currently pacing the perimeter he’s started, eyes darting around. The sound of distant engines draws his attention upward, and a massive aircraft sweeps the clifftops.

Starscream, of course, shrieks and scrambles into his ‘base’, if it can even be called that. He folds himself into a hiding place, cringing at the unmistakable sound of a Cybertronian shifting modes. Heavy footsteps come up to the door, stilling.

Just when he thought the coast was clear, a  _ human _ leans over, peeking at him and waving. The audacity—!

He brings up his arm to fire and kill the human, but massive hands grab the limb, plucking him out of his hiding spot easily and pinning his arms against his sides, preventing any harm to the human. Confused, he twists around, attempting to figure out just who would do such a thing.

“ _ Skyslayer?” _ he cries shrilly.

“In the flesh. Er, metal.” He looks down to himself, then back to the jet grasped in his claws. “Maybe don’t blow me up.”

“...What?”

“Don’t blow me up. Easy enough to understand, right?” He shoves the seeker aside, pinning him one-handed to a nearby support column and lowering the other to his human half.

“What in the Allspark—“

“You missed that whole debacle, right. Well, no point in explaining.” He shifts his chest open, climbing into the cavity before closing it. “I’m here on a fetch quest.”

“For… for me?”

“Yes, for you. And they said  _ I _ was stupid. Keep up, Screamer.” He hisses at the nickname, wings dipping and eyes narrowing. Skyslayer grunts, lifting him by the scruff of his collarpiece and carrying him out. He shrieks again, really living up to his name, and nearly sinks his talons into that drab green armor.

Skyslayer drops him on his feet, shifting his grip. He holds the jet under his arms, keeping those claws angled  _ away _ from himself.

“Let me GO!”

“Hmm. I wonder how much Megatron would like me for dragging you back,” he ponders aloud, being quite sarcastic about it. That shuts him up and he slowly cranes his neck to look back, eyes wide.

“You wouldn’t. Not, not to Megatron.” There’s a waver in his voice. His eyes brighten, and he grins wickedly.

“Oh? I wouldn’t?”

“Please!” he blurts out. “He’d sooner skin me than anything else!”

“I dunno, he did mention you… Seemed like he wanted you back on the  _ Nemesis.  _ I’d be a bad Second if I didn’t appeal to his good side with a gift every so often.”

“You  _ REPLACED ME?!” _ It’s even louder and higher, and Skyslayer swears his visor could shatter with that voice. He decides to dump Starscream on his ass in a particularly large lump of muddy earth.

“No.”

“B-but—“

“Dreadwing  _ and _ I replaced you.”

“Skyquake’s twin?”

“Nooo. Optimus’ long lost son.” He rolls his eyes. “ _ Yes, _ you dumbass.”

“Megatron wouldn’t replace me so soon!” Doubt quickly overcomes his confidence. “Would he?”

“He did. Even kept me around once I explained I was human.” He rolls his shoulders back, setting hands on his hips, staring down at the messy seeker. Starscream’s eyes dart to the blue-green glass of his cockpit, eying the human resting inside.

“So that really  _ is _ you. And you’re puppetting a Cybertronian form?”

“Not exactly. It’s me just as much as the human is.”

“I see.” Starscream stands, cringing at the way mud sloughs off his chassis, leaving murky streaks of dirty water. He scrapes some off himself, disgusted, but suddenly twists, lunging with his claws ready.

They deflect off a heavy gauntlet, and there’s a noise. The best way to describe it would be a thrum of bassy charge, crackling with energy.

“Almost got me,” Skyslayer chuckles, twisting the sword gracefully through the air and into a deadly swing. Starscream evades, swiping at him again. The sword jerks up into a block, sending his talons skidding off-target.

“I won’t miss again,” he snarls, only to be whacked thoroughly by the heavy hilt of the Crucible. He collapses, unconscious.

“Neither will I.” He grunts, clamping the hilt back to his hip, dropping a line to his leader. “I found Starscream.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No. He won’t be getting up anytime soon, but he isn’t dead.” Megatron makes a noise like turbines chewing on something.

“I don’t know whether to be annoyed you went off to harass a deserter, or pleased that you put a potential threat out of the fight for me. However…” There is a warning to his growl. “I can handle Starscream myself. Unless you gleaned anything from his chattering, you are wasting time.”

After a moment of no response, the line cuts. Skyslayer can feel the irritation from here. He nudges Starscream with a foot, eying him. Good and out, indeed. He grumbles, wandering back into the ship remains and digging around. Surely there is evidence of his actions.

He is no techie, but he did find some incriminating things to send off to Soundwave. He hears a groundbridge, and picks up the familiar signal of Ratchet—another voice draws his attention, though.

“Where  _ is he?” _ Ratchet demands.

“In the ship. There. I heard him moving things around.” Heavy footsteps approach the ship, and he recognizes the signal with proximity. Bulkhead. There’s a gap in the plating, an old door or wound in the hull, and he squirms in, wedging himself through. The metal creaks, but he gets out, opposite of the Autobots.

A few steps back, and he gets two long steps forward, pushing off hard and taking to the air.

“Ratchet!” Bulkhead calls. The commlink lights up, and the medic talks in his ear.

“Skyslayer, come back, we just want to talk.”

“Bullshit,” he growls, banking round to fly back to the  _ Nemesis. _ His radar goes black, artificial horizon wobbling, and he reflexively shifts back, landing with a roll. His sensors still reel. He tried to get to his feet, only to sway dangerously. “Stop!” he barks, staggering away from the encroaching Autobots.

“I said we just want to  _ talk,” _ Ratchet snaps, shoving him flat on his back. He intakes air hard, plating flaring in warning. His wing pinches uncomfortably behind him and the dusty ground, and he swats ineffectually at probing hands.

“What happened?” Bulkhead asks.

“Someone scrambled him. I don’t know who. I assure you, it wasn’t us!” he says to Skyslayer, who’s trying to get back up again. Familiar, stocky hands pin him back again, and he manages a swipe. Ratchet hisses through an intake. “Bulkhead, I’m going to try and see what's got him so disoriented. Hold his arms down.”

“Try it,” he snaps but his head is spinning too much to make good on the unspoken threat. It had hit him out of nowhere, the dizziness and half-blindness. Technoweapons? Some kind of encoded punishment sent by Megatron? He writhes, wings spitting garbage data and burning like hellfire on his back. Distantly, large hands hold his wrists down, and he feels some kind of override open his chest.

“Ahh. There we go. Easy.” He growls, but squeezes his mind back to his human half. This feels better, so he clambers out of the cockpit and looks to Ratchet, slightly dazed from the link. Ratchet’s hands freeze and he stares. “...Who are you?” His tone is gentle, yet serious.

“The human that got turned into Skyslayer. I don’t know what’s going on in there.” He pauses, looks down. “...Except I  _ do _ know it just—“ it cuts off in a hiccup of static, and the human drops unconscious in a heap.

Bulkhead looks spooked when on cue, the struggling mech stops, falling into stasis. Ratchet gives an explosive exhale, irritation lining his features and rearranging his plating.

“Bulkhead, help me move him. Arcee, we need a bridge back.” Bumblebee is the one that answers the comm instead, reporting that Optimus and Arcee left to investigate a disturbance. Regardless, the groundbridge reopens.

Ratchet shifts, pulling one hefty arm across his shoulders, scooping the bomber up awkwardly. He catches the human in one hand, unfolding his cabin to settle him inside before closing it for safekeeping. Bulkhead joins him, pulling his other arm up and lifting him with a huff of exertion.

“For a flier, he’s heavy. Primus,” the Wrecker grunts.

“Just help me get him onto a medberth,” he replies, adjusting Skyslayer.

—

Bumblebee is  _ intrigued. _

He watches, blue eyes blown wide as Ratchet and Bulkhead slowly maneuver a familiar body onto the medberth. His joints give a groan of machine duress, but he stays unconscious. Bulkhead steps back, allowing the team’s medic to settle him properly.

“Help me roll him onto his side,” he orders, already unfurling his scanner. Bee jumps into action, helping Bulkhead carefully roll him. Ratchet squeezes between them, giving his wings a few passes and making varying noises.

Bumblebee knows those various little grunts, hums, and almost inaudible curses well; they’re Medic Noises, and they mean something’s wrong. He decides to ask.

“He was flying away when he suddenly transformed back, landing without coordination and hardly able to stand. I’m not positive what’s wrong yet.” Ratchet never looks up, but backs away, walking around. “Lay him flat. Mind his wings.” They carefully lay him back again, and Ratchet fiddles with his jaw, opening the combat mask.

He moves it, setting it to the side, and carefully unlatches the visor, moving it to rest beside the mask. He frowns at the precisely repaired scars—claw marks that are almost irrevocably Starscream’s doing. Bee stares. Bulkhead did too.

Dozens of  _ teeth, _ triangular and sharp and curved, lay in row after row in his mouth, some even nestled into his freakish mouthparts. A few were misaligned, as if they were constantly moving around. It is disturbing. Ratchet, somehow, ignores them.

“Mm. His eyes are responding, but unevenly,” he reports aloud, after checking them with a light. “Something in his orientation systems is acting up. Whether it’s a gyro, some aerial sensor, or his net itself, I can’t be sure without further inspection.”

“So… he has to stay,” Bulkhead concludes, never looking away from that  _ maw. _

“At least tonight. We’ll see how well he does in the morning. I need to make a call.” His tone makes it clear it is for Optimus, so Bulkhead wisely leaves. Bumblebee trails him, sparing one last look to the slumbering monster on their medberth.

—

“He’s going to need extensive examination. I can’t discern what exactly is the problem from these light scans I took.” Ratchet sounds grave, far more than usual. Optimus is silent for a long stretch as he watches the steady, slow rise-and-fall of Skyslayer’s heavy chest.

“You plan to release him after?” he finally asks, meeting his friend’s eyes.

“I’m not sure. He may want me to, but I don’t know how long this will take to recover from. He may have a fit.” He chuckles mirthlessly, folding his arms loosely and rubbing the angle of his chin. “Frankly Optimus, he left us on bad terms. I was almost hoping you could talk sense into him.”

“He is more clever—and wise—than we give him credit for. Perhaps he already has sense. His decisions are more educated, now. He may disagree with us on moral grounds.”

“Maybe. But there’s a reason Autobots are the way we are.” He breaks away from his leader’s side, giving a light sigh. He checks the monitors out of habit and something akin to worry, and then looks  _ almost-guiltily  _ toward Optimus. “There’s one last problem we should address.”

“Of course.” Ratchet unfolds his cabin plating carefully, scooping out the unconscious human.

“He said he was the human that was reforged into Skyslayer, before he went into stasis.” Ratchet makes a face. The term was half-accurate, but half-accurate wasn’t good enough. Optimus got the gist regardless, nodding slightly.

“He is under your care then. Until we can contact Mrs. Darby.”

“Jack has been too occupied with his normal business,” Ratchet explains, delicately laying the human out beside the Cybertronian. “That’s what Rafael said.”

“Yes. But, we have an approximation of her daily schedule,” the Prime reminds. “We can leave her a message notifying her of the situation and she will come when possible.”

“True,” Ratchet concedes, taking one last light pass at Skyslayer. Still not enough data for anything conclusive. His attention is lifted by a large hand settling on his shoulder, and Optimus gives him a kind-yet-weary smile.

“For now, I believe we both need rest. He will be okay.” It’s as much reassurance to Ratchet as it is to himself.

—

“Where’s the patient?”

“Beside himself.” Ratchet snorted at his own pun, but ventured to the cramped sort-of medbay. “Do you want up, or for me to bring him down?”

“Down please,” she replied. “We should still have that air mattress, right?”

“Yes. Miko just used it. It’s still mostly inflated.” He grabs the bed, setting it down and moving the unknown human onto it carefully. She looks  _ surprised. _

“Hmm,” she says, after a very long moment. “He’s… big. And armored.” Ratchet just blinks down at her.

“...Is that not within the bracket of acceptable human sizes?” He sounds— _ puzzled. _

“No, no, he is. No gigantism or anything. Just a little on the tall side.” She kneels at his shoulder, feeling around the thick, padded collar. She flicked her wrist, keeping an eye on her watch. “He must be the very physically active type. Still a healthy rhythm, regardless.” She peers into his visor, thoughtful. “He  _ seems _ fine. Not much I can tell past all this armor. He might just be unconscious.”

“Thank you, then. As long as he’s not majorly injured or otherwise incapacitated.”

“It’s no problem. Anything else I can help with?”

“Unfortunately, no.” He straightens from his half-kneel beside her, looking to the medberth. “It’s all Cybertronian from here.”

“I’m still curious about some of your biology.” Ratchet hums in the bottom of his vocoder.

“Well, as long as it doesn’t interrupt your typical daily flow, you’re welcome to stay.”

“I’m out for the day. Might as well, until Jack heads home.” She moves over to climb the ladder, taking up a spot on the raised balcony. She watches the careful, practiced way Ratchet examines him, murmuring under his breath. He does checks that almost mirror human procedures.

“Still completely out, but healthy,” he sighs. “Just need to look deeper, then.” Ratchet fiddles with his side, opening the green panelling there and leaning down to look inside. He passes it over with his scanner, clucking in disapproval. “He’s a mess, systemically. All balance and orientation sensors are miscalibrated.”

“So he can’t stand without becoming dizzy?”

“He can’t be  _ awake _ without becoming dizzy.” He frowns down at whatever he was looking at, carefully reaching in to poke around. Even this seems practiced. “I’d have to completely reset his entire orientation net.”

“But you can’t, can you?”

“Not until I find what caused this. If I reset it with whatever it is still running rampant, it could do more harm than good.” He shifts, turning his head gently and reaching to feel for an override at the base of his neck. Most fliers had them. Sure enough, his plating all flicks open with a slight noise. June goes wide-eyed at it. Ratchet does too, frankly, but that’s more because his spark was blazing red and  _ violent. _

It’s crackling and hissing, sending forks and snapping arcs of red lightning across the internals of his spark chamber. It thrums with the same energy Ratchet detected in that anomaly so long ago—and again, more recently. He finally manages to pry his eyes from it, going to check the gyros set higher and lower in his torso.

A quick scan, and he finds something troubling—a tiny, black device. He plucks it out.

“What’s that?”

“A scrambler. His hardware is all fine and healthy, but this was messing up the signals between his processor and the physical balance organs.” He looks it over more thoroughly. “MECH. He did have an altercation with them some time ago, but he didn’t report being hit by anything…” Ratchet drops the scrambler into a small bag for later.

“So you found the source of the problem. You don’t think he’d lie, would he?”

“About that? Unlikely. I think this was unnoticed until it was activated.”

“Could he have more sitting in wait?” Ratchet looks to her, something pained in his expression.

“We won’t know until they activate. They pass unnoticed under most scanning methods. I only found it with a physical examination and we can’t always afford those. Not with a patient like this.”

“Can you look now?”

“The longer I leave him like this, the more imperfect the fix will be. Time is of the essence.” He sets to work, carefully resetting each gyro connection. Next is the relay; he reaches over and picks up a delicate-looking tool, checking and putting the proper power back to each connector. He checks the signals. Clear as day, now. He gives him one last pass with the scanner, giving a satisfied little  _ hmph _ before closing him up, plate by plate.

“That was incredible to watch,” she tells him, and he seems pleased with that.

“Now it is a matter of waiting.”

—

The first things he registers when he wakes up are the following: soft easy-listening music, bright lights burning his eyes, and the squishy pad below him. He rolls slightly, realizing it’s an air mattress and he’s covered in spikes.

Some awkward shimmying later, he’s to his feet. The persistent daze is absent from the link, which is great. He stretches, grunting a bit at the twinges of stiff muscles. Everything protests when he puts his arms up, leaning back and popping joints. He gives a low noise of content, slumping back down and yawning.

“Morning, sunshine!” someone calls, and he looks up in confusion. That voice was unfamiliar. A muffin-topped black dude with a blue dress shirt and slacks treads up, offering a hand. “William Fowler. I was told about your situation. Bit odd having a ‘con aligned human, but what can ya do.” He warily shakes his hand, eying him a bit. He sounds more familiar now.

“Yooooo! I heard about him coming back!” Bulkhead transforms and wanders off with a sigh, leaving his enthusiastic charge in the main area. She bolts up, grinning ear-to-ear. “Dude. You look so badass in person.”

“Language,” Fowler mumbles. She ignores him.

“So, you worked for Megatron right? Is he as crazy as Bulkhead says? What about you? Are you crazy? Do you like metal? You look like you like metal.”

He blinks, and sighs.

_ Yes, I like metal, _ he confesses, signs a bit halting. Guess that happens when there’s nobody to hold a conversation with for a long ass time—you get rusty. Miko looks to Fowler, who nods.

“He does.”

“Sick!” She grins again.

_ You know ASL? _ He asks Fowler.

“Yup. Mandatory. I can’t sign fluently, but I can tell what you’re sayin’.”

_ Good enough. Do the Autobots? _

“As far as I know, they’re fluent in most human forms of communication. You’d have to ask them for specifics though.”

He sighs, turning away to go ask. None of the Autobots are present, at least from what he can tell with his terrible human senses—again, how the  _ hell _ had he not been stopped with nothing but this at his disposal? He bristles a little at the feeling of being watched, and sends a very  _ pointed _ glare toward the other humans.

_ I don’t like the staring, _ he signs, hands jerky with frustration.

“Oh. Sorry.” Fowler wisely wanders off, ducking a little in self consciousness. Apparently his staring wasn’t meant to be oppressive. Miko just comes closer, completely unfazed by the absolutely lethal look she’s receiving. She grins up at him.

“I don’t know anything of what you're saying, but I wanna share some music with you.”

He does his best scoff-eyeroll combination, and stalks off.

Except, she follows.

_ Alright  _ **_fuckers,_ ** _ that’s enough,  _ he gripes inwardly, aiming his ire at the angels who were surely getting cheap laughs from his situation. He keeps walking, stopping at the edge of the medberth and peering up at the nigh-insurmountable edge.

He remembers why he bested Hell; it’s because they wilted in the face of his general ‘unstoppable force’ attitude and ridiculous willpower. The strength and speed were just perks.

He shakes his arms out lazily, and slams a cupped hand into the side of the console, then the other. He pries his hand out of the dented metal, jamming it in higher. He makes his way up, climbing and heaving his bulk to the top. He takes a running jump off the console, landing smack onto his other body’s chestplates. Good enough. Miko has lost interest, apparently, because when he shuffles to the edge and peers over, she’s gone.

  
He gives a little  _ whuff _ of self-satisfaction and goes to stuff himself in his cockpit for a nap. Nothing better to do, anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes up in Hell. Except, it’s not Hell; there’s something strange about it. A quality he can’t put his finger on.

He doesn’t let it distract him for long, calling forth his beloved shotgun in a localized storm of red lightning. He was in his machine body, just compacted down to human size.

He’s in the middle of hunting down a terrified bunch of imps, having paused to behead a knight, when something jerks him truly awake.

“Get up,” Arcee orders. “Megatron wants to make a trade for you.” He grunts, sitting up, shaking his wings out. At least his machine half felt better.

“Didn’t know he was that attached to me,” he croaks, vocoder not entirely online yet. He blinks, squinting at the intensity of the overhead fluorescents. His HUD is missing as well. He glances down, seeing his visor set on a small tray, mask clipped off to the side. He picks up the blue-green glass, clicking it back to where it belonged. Arcee is staring at him in something like annoyance.

“He offered a year’s full supply of energon for all of us, in exchange for you. Apparently he doesn’t like you being here.” She eyeballs the way he stuffs the mask back on, rebreather rattling a little as he sucks in a mighty gulp of Argent plasma and energon vapor. He stretches, then stands, looking down at her. She doesn’t falter under his gaze, and he makes a note to  _ not _ underestimate the little motorcycle.

Optimus steps in, glancing to her and silently dismissing her from the room. He stands up a little straighter, folding his wings back sharply.

“Prime,” he says, a unique flavor of derision in his tone. Optimus looks—for the briefest second—hurt. It’s wiped over by that stony look he usually adopts.

“Skyslayer. I wished to speak with you, before our trade was made. Further negotiations are occurring as we speak.”

“Are you going to give me some heartfelt speech about how much you care? Or maybe, try to persuade me to sign on with your oppressive bull?” He bats his red eyes at the Autobot for good measure. Optimus stays unwavering.

“No. Clearly Megatron has explained to you his side of the story. However… did he tell you how his answer to the call for equality was to violently eliminate the old to foist the new onto our world?” Optimus comes closer, unafraid of the bomber. “Did he tell you how  _ his _ violence is the start of the war that destroyed Cybertron? I’ve told him there were better ways, but he didn’t care to listen. Do you?” It’s a challenge.

“No. He didn’t tell me that. But neither of you have a particularly good track record of telling the full truth.” He chuckles mirthlessly, angling his head. “I’ll concede, that was a better effort than I was expecting. But I’m still not convinced. He wasn’t wrong.” He looks up, meeting Optimus’s eyes steadily. “If he hadn’t taken to violence as a means to an end, would they have listened to him? Would they have brushed him off anyway?”

“How do you—“

“Simple conclusion. Megatron is not so opaque with his motivations.” He folds his arms, then. “He’s a bitter old hack, and you’re a Prime. I’d say that’s a clear indicator of who history favored.”

“History did not  _ favor  _ me. If it did, this war would’ve been over with long ago.”

“Oh, really?” He takes a grim delight in pushing Optimus’s buttons. “And why is that? Because you would’ve been lucky enough to kill him sooner?”

“No. Because I would have been able to talk him down.”

“Would you? He’s almost as stubborn as you are. Doesn’t matter how much history likes you, he’s hardheaded and deadset.”

“I know.” There’s pain, there. It gets Skyslayer’s attention. Very much so, in fact.

“Optimus,” Ratchet calls. “Megatron is getting testy. Now or never.” Optimus sighs, and turns away to open the groundbridge.

“Now or never indeed,” he intones, pushing the switch down.

—

Skyslayer treads onto the bridge, seeing Soundwave and Dreadwing at their posts. Ah, the Decepticon war machine—so efficient, they replace missing officers in days and don’t think twice. He stops a bit behind Dreadwing.

“I’ve got a question.

“Why do you hate me.” Dreadwing jerks slightly, straightening and turning to look at Skyslayer. He’s standing there, hand settled on the hilt of the Crucible casually. Not a threat, simply habit. He considers the question-demand, once he’s established that there’s no danger to his person.

“When you came online, your signal was an illusion. I thought it was my brother. Instead, I found  _ you.” _

“So you hate me for… not being your brother.” Skyslayer’s eyes narrow slightly. “Seems ridiculous. Besides, it was Starscream’s shit that killed him. Not me.”

“You gave me hope, and then you extinguished it, and you didn’t even care,” Dreadwing snaps, getting closer.

“I didn’t even  _ know!” _ He leans away, armor fluffing slightly. He doesn’t like this proximity, and he definitely doesn’t like the way Soundwave turns slightly, as if to reprimand them for arguing on the bridge. Or, to record it and send to Megatron, probably with the subject line  _ ‘Make Them Stop’. _

“Well. Now you do. So leave me alone.” Dreadwing turns, resuming his work with the slightest anger in the set of his wings.

Soundwave keeps staring, and that’s when Skyslayer notices he’s not annoyed  _ or  _ recording—rather, he’s trying to show them something. He steps up to the spy, looking down to the screen curiously.

“Was your brother’s name  _ Skyquake _ by any chance?” Dreadwing stiffens, looking over his shoulder. Skyslayer is watching him again, those already intense eyes downright  _ blazing  _ red now. “Because Soundwave just picked up his signal.”

Dreadwing goes wide-eyed, coming over and examining the screen as well and sinking slightly.

“He… He was scrap! Dead by Optimus Prime’s hand, resurrected into a mindless husk by Starscream, lost in a separate dimension… but his signal…” His eyes flickers, like he is warring internally on whether or not he dared hope.

“Hey, you have work to do. Finish up. I’ll check it out.”

“Absolutely not!” Dreadwing glared. “There is no way  _ you  _ are retrieving my brother.”

“Alright, alright, fine. We’ll both go. I kinda wanna meet this guy, anyhow.” He looks back to Soundwave, who is already spinning up the groundbridge. He seems pleased, somehow.

—

They meet out in the middle of the desert. Dreadwing and Skyquake transform midair, landing close to each other and promptly crashing into a hug.

Skyslayer lands a short distance away, folding his arms and simply watching. There’s blubbering in a language that he doesn’t know—most likely whatever native dialect they spoke on Cybertron.

A harsh glare of white appears, blinding him for a few precious moments. When his vision returns to normal, he sees vague shapes, outlines of angels.

“What do you want,” he sighs, looking past them to see Dreadwing and Skyquake still distracted by each other. He has time to get rid of them.

“Dreadwing was correct. Skyquake was dead. We had no intention of bringing him back, but your actions have made this the best course of action.”

“Actions?”

“In siding with both, you bring them to stillness. Neither side wishes harm to your person.”

“Great, so since I’m neutral, they’re in a stalemate. And that’s why you brought another Decepticon back. Because that wouldn’t tip the scales unevenly.” His sarcasm goes right over their heads.

“If you will it, this will end their war.” He sighs, waving them off dismissively. Thankfully they actually listen, for once. Just as they finish fading, Dreadwing pulls his brother over, content in his expression.

“This is Skyslayer. He chose to come with me.” Skyquake watches him a moment, before grabbing him, dragging him into a bear hug. He’s trapped, arms pinned to his sides by the enthused jet.

“Thank you for helping to reunite us,” he says softly.

“I didn’t—“

“Hush,” he says, pulling away slightly. “You did. Now, why don’t you bring us home?”

—

Skyslayer trails a good ways behind the twin jets, keeping pace but allowing them plenty of airspace. It felt good to just stretch his wings and enjoy the sunshine on his hull.

He watches the ground roll by uneventfully below them, and tunes his radio to a channel at random, listening to a bit of music for the ride back.

The  _ Nemesis _ hangs over a lake, hunkered low to the earth, shadow blackening the water. Fliers are circling the ship like vultures, and Megatron is visible from the top deck. He silences the radio, curious as to  _ why _ he would put himself out here.

He lands just behind the twins, giving himself a chance to stretch his limbs, tucking his wings neatly back. Soundwave looks to him, beside Megatron and silent as ever. He glances to his flying companions before walking up, more than a little confused.

“Is everything okay?”

“Everything is great,” Soundwave replies, using a couple of clips. One of them sounds like him. He rolls his eyes slightly, giving the spy a hardened look.

“Bullshit, Soundwave. If everything was fine, then why is the boss up here overseeing whatever’s going on personally?” Soundwave’s shoulders wobble slightly, as if he’s chuckling, and turns to look at their leader.

“Glad to see—Skyquake.” A chirp from Laserbeak punctuates the audio, and he blinks in surprise.

“He’s just up here to meet Skyquake?” Soundwave nods, seeming amused by his confusion. He turns, walking off to follow Megatron back inside. Skyslayer gives a little whuff but trails along as well.

“Give your report later,” Megatron orders, “for now, go acquaint yourself with our returning member.”

He sighs, backing off, and going to meet with the jets as ordered.

They seem welcoming enough, switching from their native dialect to English as he approaches. Even Dreadwing is in a good enough mood to not shoo him off.

“Skyslayer! You’re just the mech I wanted to see,” Skyquake starts, grinning amiably.

“Good to see you too,” he quips, offering a smile of his own. Skyquake wraps an arm around his broad shoulders, laughing.

“Dreadwing has been telling me about your exploits, but I wish to hear them from  _ you.” _

—

It is evening—after the celebration for Skyquake—when he turns the mission report in. He’s been meaning to ask why there was a report required for such a short mission, but Megatron had given him this wizened squint, as if he knew something the bomber didn’t.

As he walkd out, he was met by a familiar green jet.

“Walk with me?” he offerd, somewhat pleased when Skyquake takes him up on it. They walkthrough the halls in companionable silence.

When he looks over, Skyquake is staring at him, eyes tracing the movement of his facemask, drawing the length of ribbed tubing that feed him his typical mixture of gases. He trails Skyslayer out, oblivious to the world around him.

“Hey, something on my face?” There’s mild irritation, but he just nods. Skyslayer jerks back, confused. “What?”

“Hold still,” Skyquake replies, and undoes the mask, watching it drop. “There.”

“...That’s there  _ normally.” _

“Maybe. But I like you better this way.” He smiles, self-satisfied.

They make it out to a quiet back corridor when Skyslayer decides to ask  _ why _ exactly the jet was trailing him. He turns, eyes widening at their sudden proximity. Skyquake may as well be on top of him. He is slightly taller than his twin, and thus, taller than Skyslayer.

He angles his head down, easily trapping him with one arm curled round his shoulders. A hand keeps his sensitive wings from squishing against the wall, and right as he goes to ask, or demand, or get angry, Skyquake leans down.

His lips connect with those strange internals of Slayer’s mouthparts in the barest of touches, and the building snarl in his chest dies, eyes blown wide. Skyquake takes that as an allowance and ducks closer, pressing a kiss to him more insistently. Hands leap to his chest, giving a halfhearted little push before going slack. Skyslayer’s talons are  _ warm, _ and he traps one against his cockpit with his free hand. The other stays firm, not teasing—simply blocking him from any potential wing discomfort.

“What is this for?” Skyslayer asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“For nothing.” He chuckles, kissing him again. He is so cute like this, bunched close to him and all flustered. He dares to kiss him again, enjoying the feel of it. This time, he lingers, not wanting to pull away just yet. It pays off, because the mouth against his finally reciprocates the pressure.

They break apart, Skyslayer’s eyes wide but so very dim. Skyquake may have height on him, but he lost in weight. He learns this very quickly when they spun, Skyslayer now pinning  _ him _ up against the wall, a sly smirk tugging at his mouthparts. It’s an interesting position, surely; he’s got his hands curled into his plating, forcing him against the curvature of the wall and taking the majority of his weight.

Skyquake notes the pleasing bunch of artificial muscle fibers swelling in Skyslayer’s arms, and croons a little note as he runs a thumb over the shape, pleased at the power behind it. He’s jerks slightly, pulled into another kiss, this time rougher. Even despite the riot of sharp parts residing in his mouth, not  _ once _ does he even so much as nick Skyquake’s lips.

“I bet I could lift you higher,” he says when they pull away again. “You’re not heavy. Just too damn tall.” He chuckles, and delights in the grin he receives—then promptly kisses it away again, enjoying the way his other hand joins its partner in rubbing at his rock-solid biceps. Whoever made this body up must’ve been smiling on him, carrying over his best asset like that.

“You have quite the strength to lift me so easily,” Skyquake goads, encouraging his bragging wholeheartedly. He loves the way he  _ grins, _ holding him up one-handed and lifting the other into a curl, showing off the power a little better. “Mm, impressive…” He reaches to touch it, curling his hand underneath, petting at it.

“You know what I like to hear,” he muses in reply, pulling back and setting him properly on his feet. Skyquake seems unhappy with that though, and grabs him for another kiss. It’s sweet, and slow, and feels incredible.

So incredible that neither notice the heavy footsteps approaching them until Megatron is  _ right there  _ and there’s no hiding what they were doing, even as they break apart. Skyslayer is far more flushed than the other bomber, and he tries to protest around his fluster, but he can see the way the warlord’s eyes burn down on them, and quickly flaps his jaws shut.

“I suppose you don’t have an explanation for that?” he growls, danger in his tone. Skyquake looks ready to bolt, eyes big as saucers and wings pricked.

“Uh,” Skyslayer tries, but a glance shuts him up again.

“Not you. Him.” Megatron is now boring a hole into Skyquake.

“Sir, I—”

“On second thought, I don’t want to hear it.” He holds a hand up, cutting him off. “Out of my sight. You. Come with me.” Megatron looks down his nose at the slayer, who ducks his head meekly.

Skyquake fucks off rather quickly after that, and Megatron is clearly  _ fuming  _ even if he’s being remarkably coolheaded about it.

—

They’re still walking when he decides to speak up, to attempt at making amends.

“Sorry,” he tries, only to be ignored. “I didn’t remember any rules about fraternization or anything—“

“There are none,” comes the grumble. “But you are  _ mine _ and I will not have Skyquake of all mecha snogging you senseless in my ship’s  _ halls!” _ His voice has risen to a roar, and he flinches. He also nearly crashes into Megatron, having not realized he stopped short to try and cool off. He turns, looking down at him. “Look at me,” he orders, frowning at the obvious delay. Skyslayer was not the type to be afraid of such an order.

“I’m serious,” he says, trying to be confident. “Had I known you wouldn’t have wanted that, I would’ve pushed him off—“ He’s interrupted not by some demand or even anger, but  _ another _ kiss, this time all teeth and aggression. It knocks the air out of him. He gasps when a tongue presses to his mandibles, only giving him a moment before slipping in.

Hands wrap tight around his wrists, pulling him into it. He doesn’t resist much, stunned to silence when Megatron finally pulls away. He pushes his forked tongue out, licking across his lips in a quick swipe.

“There. Now you taste as you should.” He blinks a few times, shocked by that.

“Wh- _ what?” _

“I said, you are mine. You should taste like me.” His brain seems to finally catch up with everything and he doesn’t fluff, he  _ flares,  _ every single plate flinging itself outward in anger.

“I don’t belong to you.” He rips a wrist away, ignoring the fresh claw marks, and jabs a finger up at Megatron, eyes narrowing. His hand is smacked aside, and he leans in.

“Oh, but you do.” Megatron’s voice dips into a dangerous purr, and against his will his angry puff smooths itself out, some part of him either interested or afraid. He leans back, a growl building in his vocoder. A hand smooths down his side, nimbly avoiding catching on anything.

“The only  _ reason _ I belong to you is because I’m your second-in-command,” he retorts, still spitting venom despite his almost-calmed appearance. Megatron ignores it.

“So angry,” he croons sweetly, apparently relaxed enough himself to do such a thing. He steals another brief kiss, giving him a mild nip before straightening, pulling away. “You belong wholly to me. And you will not be forgetting it. Chin up.” He growls again, engines making his displeasure  _ quite  _ audible even as he obeys, keeping his feelers tucked away.

Megatron leans in, watching the flex and shift of his neck cabling. His hands are quick, reaching up and clamping a  _ heavy _ collar to him. It feels like it’s solid and stiff and the second the hands are gone, he digs at it, trying to pull it off.

“What the fuck is this?!”

“Relax. It’s just a tracking collar. Your modified energon system is playing havoc with Soundwave’s tracking abilities, and this is a rather pleasing way of fixing that issue.” He hooks fingers underneath, yanking the bomber up and meeting that lethal glare head-on. “You would be smart to remember who holds all the cards.”

“Take it off,” he spits in reply.

“And ignore Soundwave’s wishes? I think not. He is loyal and deserving of such a convenience. The only person who holds the key to take it off is myself. Don’t forget that.” He drops Skyslayer, who stumbles slightly. He stays hunched defensively, wings flared out and plating still prickling. Megatron turns to walk away, allowing himself a slight smirk. He could handle disobedient little shits with grace.

—

Skyslayer stares out the window, parked in one of the flier-special seats. His engine stalls, and for a moment his head dips as he dozes, only to jerk himself awake, grunting in frustration.

“This is fucking boring,” he complains to the empty room.

Or, almost empty. There’s footsteps near the door, and he looks over, seeing a couple of drones shuffling out. He blinks slowly, an idea forming in his head. The angels want him to make friends? He’d make some damn friends.

He stands, shaking off the half-sleep state he’d been hanging in. Making his way out, he reasons that there are so many unnamed Decepticon mooks, he is sure to find at least a couple he could put up with. A check at his chrono says it’s around lunchtime, so he swings by the officers’ decks to snag some energon—and a bit spare to share.

With that, Skyslayer walks down toward the main mess hall like a mech on a mission. Immediately, he spies a mass of Vehicons, idly chatting as they head in. Behind them, a more manageable bunch of Eradicon fliers.

_ I’ll probably have better luck with them, right? _ he thinks, and meanders up as casually as he can. Immediately, they look over.

“...Hey,” he tries, inwardly cringing at his own terrible social skills.

“Hey,” one of them replies, and he feels a  _ little  _ relieved.

“Mind if I… join you?” He wracks his brain, trying to think if there were a better word choice. Before he can settle, one of the others chirps a ‘sure’.

He sits with them, flexing his long legs awkwardly as he folds into the too-small chair. He doesn’t mind much. He offers one of the spare cubes to his new companions, mind still going a million miles an hour. Being social has never been his cup of tea, and it is even more awkward now.

The drone takes it, seeming pleased as they tip it up for a sip. Their eyestrip dims, and they sigh in content.

“Officers’ grade. Wooow.” They really draw the  _ wow,  _ emphasizing how amazing it must be. He’s… confused, but pleased they enjoy it. They then pass the cube off to the one to their side, allowing them a sip.

“I’m—” he starts.

“Skyslayer. Yup, we know.” He startles a bit, not used to such a thing.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, shyly dipping his head. He looks down at his own meal, feeling unenthused about it. Who knew all it took to cow him was a bunch of amiable drones? The one to his right chuckles, a trilling sort of laugh.

“It’s alright. We know all the officers. And you’re the big number two.” He feels himself flush, wings crowding to his back in embarrassment.

“Yeah,” is all he can come up with.

“At first, I thought you were gunna come yell at us for something. But you want to sit with us and eat lunch.” The flier laughs. “Wild.”

“Oh, don’t be rude,” the first one scolds, mildly. “Well, welcome to the 607th, sir. We’re just scouts, but we take pride in our work. I’m E12-9. That one over there is B5-311. Rude over there is S1-13.”

“Hi,” B5-311 says, waving a little. S1-13 does the same.

“I’m M1-2020. This is my partner, J1-135.” Skyslayer sits up a little, and looks around them all.

“Your names… Eli,” he says, pointing to E12, “Beck, Sam, Matt, Jame.” He looks to them all in turn. “The numbers fit with the letters perfectly.” The drones all look shocked, but secretly thrilled.

“Matt,” M1 murmurs. Skyslayer looks concerned for a half a second. “I love it.”

“Looks like you’ve just made yourself some allies,” E12 notes.

“I’ll drink to that,” J1 laughs, taking another sip of the shared energon.

—

“Do you think he knows?” M1 asks their partner, vocoder downtuned to avoid other ears.

“He couldn’t,” they reply. “Otherwise he’d have reigned it in.” M1 just hums, thoughtful.

“I heard rumor through the Vehicons of him being human.”

“Sounds like scrap,” J1 huffed, vents expelling a puff.

“They see more of the bridge than we do,” they argue back. “And it would explain why he’s so… open.”

“You sure that’s not just him trying to be  _ nice?” _ M1 hesitates at that, clearly not having considered it.

“I don’t know,” they sigh, conceding defeat for now.

“Alright, listen up everyone,” E12 calls. “I managed to cash in a few favors with our higher-ups, and we’re slotted for a perimeter check with the big guy himself.”

“Wait. You not only got in to _talk_ to the officers, you managed to persuade one of them to go on a _check_ with us? With _no_ Autobot activity to speak of for, what, two months?” S1 asks, incredulous.  
  
“Honestly, I lied,” E12 admits. “I didn’t even need to cash in on favors. He was walking around and I just… _asked.”_   
  


“Why would the Second-in-Command of the whole damn armada want to come on a check with a bunch of Eradicons?” J1 muses aloud.

“Maybe he likes us?” B5 tries, getting confused looks. “What? He shared energon with us.  _ Officers’ grade, _ at that. Liking us seems as possible as anything.”

“That sounds like a shot in the dark, B5.”   
  


“So? It’s a possibility.”

  
“They’re right,” E12 points out. “It  _ is  _ a possibility. Besides, it’s not our job to ask why he wants to do it. He’s an officer, for Primus’ sake. Where’s your respect? He shares  _ one _ cube with us, and you all forget who he is?” They all stiffen a bit at that, nodding amongst themselves. “Come on. We’re up in ten.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shitpost time

The Eradicons all seem nervous around him, despite having been just fine at their shared lunch.

_ Heading out with group 607 for perimeter check,  _ he pings Soundwave. He gets a confirmation seconds later, and tips his head to look to them.

“Go on,” he says. “I need a running start.” They look to each other, and Sam’s the one that pipes up.

“With all due respect sir, we’ll wait until you’re in the air.” He grunts a bit, almost taken aback, but concedes that it’s probably a better idea anyway. He turns, breaking into a trot, then a full sprint. He pushes off the deck hard, transforming midair and kicking off all four engines with a roar. He can barely hear the others join him over the din, but radar feeds him five points.

“Where’s your checkpoint?” He half wants to dip back and let one of them take point, but Eli feeds him a set of waypoint coordinates. He inwardly sighs at that, settling into a high-altitude cruise, keeping one ear turned back to them.

“Was impressive,” Beck whispers to their teammates across unit comm.

“Eyes on,” Eli responds over local comm.

“Zeroed enough,” Beck grumps. Sam chuckles. “Zeroed enough,” they mock, voice low. “Explain chrono fifty?”

“Misfire. You’ve heard the wave.”

“What’s going on?” he asks, purely curious, but they all seem to jolt even midair. As if they forgot he was there.

“Keeping everyone in line,” Eli reassures, but the bomber eases on his throttle, growing closer to their little formation.

“What’s  _ zeroed enough?” _ A couple mumble in embarrassment.

“It’s… it means a lot of different things. In this context, I was telling Eli that I’m focused on the mission.”

“Because they told you eyes on,” he concludes. “A call to focus.”

“Yeah.” He feels amusement tickle in his spark, and pushes forward again.

“Thanks for explaining that.”

“Of course, bossmech.” He almost protests that, but picks up a confusing signal. He dives, curious.

“Where are you going?”

“Weird Decepticon signal. I’m just gunna see what it is, and meet with you again.” They seem to hesitate, but peel off the planned route, following him toward a loose, new-growth forest.

He lands, looking around. The others join him, tidy as ever.

“Your scanners must be better than ours,” Sam points out, clearly a little uneasy.

“Hang on. I’m picking it up too,” Eli reports, before their eyestrip blazes in shock. “ _ Airachnid!” _ Just like  _ that,  _ chaos explodes out, Beck pinned to a nearby pine by webbing. They cry out in fear, and Skyslayer summons his chainsaw, wings prickling at his back. Sam is next, Matt firing blind and screaming in terror-pain when the cannon is suddenly  _ gone.  _ Eli and Jame scramble away, trying to get to Beck without being downed themselves.

He watches as this all happens in seconds, and feels something he doesn’t recognize. Doesn’t recognize until it fills him, and then there’s the realization that it’s a cold, wicked rage. A predator’s anger. He fires into the trees, relying on sight over the fuzzy latency of radar. There’s a sharp yelp, and some unfamiliar shape drops, tangling in stilt-like limbs.

He stalks closer, reforming his hands and grabbing it. Those thin limbs snap and crush in his grip, but a wild swipe of fine claws sends him back, anger flaring. He comes close again, snatching the wrist like lightning and crumpling the slender limb like so much paper. The face tips up, mouth open in a muted scream. He leans in, dragging them by the ruined arm still in his hand.

“ **You touched** **_my_ ** **Eradicons. Last fucking mistake.** ” 

“Get… Get off me you  _ brute!” _ The shrillness only stokes his hate. The other hand moves and before he can respond, some kind of glue-laden, heavy polymer pasted across his vision, blinding him. He staggers back, dropping the bot and hissing in shock. Instinct makes him want to claw at it, but gluing his hand to his head was a terrible idea, so he just shook his head violently, attempting to keep himself from panicking.

Radar reports the shape is up and moving, fast. He pivots, keeping it in front of him. He breathes out heavily, engines shifting up a tick against his will.

“Get back here!” he calls.

“I don’t think so. I don’t play with frightened animals.” His plating flares at that, and he can feel the anxiety draining, red filling his vision even despite the blockage. He wants to charge, wants to  _ so bad, _ but he manages to rein in his anger for just a moment more.

“Oh?” he taunts. “I think I was the one who nearly ripped  _ you _ into scrap. I’d say you’re the one who’s frightened.” He clenches his fists at his sides, but gets an idea.

His target is lurking above him, clearly hesitant to charge in with his hands so open and ready, so he bows, dropping his rebreather and visor to the ground. Now he can see, but his face is exposed.

Sure enough, the bot drops, a couple legs hanging limply, practically dragging. Weaknesses. The arm he crushed hangs defensively, other poised to attack. He rolls his neck, circling slowly. They loop, watching each other steadily.

“I’ve never seen you before. Megatron scrap that worthless jet, finally?” His opponent questions, fangs flashing between purple lips.

“Starscream is still alive,” he says, allowing his own bizarre mouthparts work over the words. “I replaced him when he deserted.”

“So, what’s your name? I want to tell that bucketheaded old fool his new plaything’s dead.”

“You first.”

“Airachnid,” she replies, chuckling.

“Skyslayer.” Airachnid hums, inclining her head.

“Cute attempt at sounding scary.”

“That’s funny; the demons I slaughtered gave me the idea.” That gives her pause, just enough for him to charge in, saw coming out halfway there, roaring to life as he swings it down. It spits clumps of dirt and grass, missing her completely. Already, he’s moving again, swiping it while the other hand goes to his hip.

She fires more of that polymer, gumming his saw into uselessness. He swings the Crucible in a wild arc, slicing saplings down by the dozen and searing off the stumps. He nearly cleaves off a limb, and laughs, low and guttural.

“Watch it, there. Almost nicked you.” He grins, shifting into a mighty downward strike, the hook of the blade digging deep into the Earth. She hisses, scampering back remarkably nimbly for having so many legs out of commission.

“Stay  _ back!” _ she spits, flicking more webbing onto his shoulder, slowing the mechanisms. Still, he stalks forward, eyes burning like coals in the dark of his faceplate. She jams his knee, and he stops, venting heavily. It refuses to move, spitting errors when he tries. He ignores them, dragging the leg forward. She is grinning there, but it drops when he lurches closer again, fighting with his arm.

He manages a stiff, inelegant swing, which she easily dodges. Less easy, however, is the fire incoming from the Eradicons. They’ve freed each other, and Matt hangs back, clutching the blue-coated stump of their arm. Airachnid scrabbles off. He roars, angered that she got away, even injured like she is.

Eli comes up with the others, prying and scraping the polymer off everywhere except his saw. He rips that off himself, then transforms it back.

“Sorry she got away,” Sam says. His tone is shockingly soft. He grunts, eyes still burning holes into where he saw her last. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

“No,” he finally says, intentionally dimming his eyes and smoothing out his armor. He turns to them, looking over the spooked group of drones. He can feel himself bristle, angry that she hurt them and got away with it.

“Boss?” Matt asks, voice thready. They seem a tad dazed, and he snaps into reality.

“Soundwave, bridge to my location. I’ve got wounded.” He lifts an arm, protectively herding them into a bunch, wings shifting to crowd them close defensively.

The bridge opens, and he half considers going back for Airachnid. Matt looks to be in too bad of shape, though, and he bends, scooping the Eradicon up easily. Beck rejoins the group a moment later, carrying his visor and mask.

Everyone files through, just as another groundbridge opens a short distance away.

—

“You provoked her,” Knockout sniffs, ignoring his response.

“I went to  _ investigate.  _ She attacked. I retaliated. Nobody told me what she’d do, I didn’t even know her before today.”

“I’m sorry, Skyslayer, but you’re really talking to the wrong mech. Take it up with Soundwave, or Megatron. Maybe you’ll quit hovering then.” The medic shoots a pointed glare to him, then bows his head to resume his repairs on Matt’s arm.

He grumbles, but does leave, making his way to the bridge. The whole situation ruffles him so bad; by the time he’s to the bridge, he’s  _ steaming. _

“Megatron,” he snaps. “You never told me shit about this  _ Airachnid,  _ and now one of  _ your  _ mechs is sitting in sickbay because of a lack of intel.”

“You never bothered to ask.” He stiffens, wings dipping in surprise at not red glaring him down, but  _ purple. _

“I didn’t think I needed to.” His annoyance is quelled under his confusion. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing has  _ happened. _ You make it sound as if a slight visual change is a bad thing.” Skyslayer grumps a bit. While he’s feeling all hard-done-by, Megatron is talking, and he realizes belatedly that he’s just been ordered to visit Doc Knock himself.

He unhappily concedes, making his way back to the medbay. The Eradicons are just leaving when he arrives. Knockout is tidying a bit, and looks over to him.

“Let me guess,” he deadpans. “Megatron’s orders.”

“I wouldn’t be here if he didn’t tell me to come,” he huffs in retort. Knockout aggressively rolls his eyes, and points to the berth.

“Mecha like you are insufferable. Will say  _ I’m fine  _ until they’re a pile of slag.” He grumbled at Knockout’s bitching, but laid down for him regardless. “Well, let’s see then. You faced down Airachnid, so I’m going to assume this is about that webbing. She sticks all kinds of fun stuff in there.”

“Get to the point,” the bomber sighs. He was in no mood to listen to Knockout’s incessant chatter.

“The point  _ is,” _ Knockout grumped, “that you probably have some toxic fluid in your joints. Assuming that’s where she hit.”

“Shoulder, knee, facial armor,” he states flatly, pointing to the corresponding spots. Knockout hems and haws, making a show of eyeballing the areas and even bothering to scan them.

“I’m not too worried about your face. You do fine with scars now, and it can’t damage anything internal there. Too much armor plating.” He turns away to his monitor, mumbling “no room for processor past it all” under his breath. Skyslayer hears, but decides against making that fact known.

“And the rest?”   
  


“Well, to summarize, I’m going to have to drug you and disconnect a few things, nothing major. You just won’t be able to feel your hand or foot while I work.”

“That’s it?”   
  


“That’s it.”

“Then get on with it. I thought you were going to have to do something worse.” He chuckles a little, laying back.

“Alright then. This’ll be easiest if I just pass it through your existing intakes…”

—

At some point, he’d dozed off. Not been put under, or anything—honest to god just  _ fallen asleep. _ He wakes up, feeling quite numb. His right arm and left leg don’t respond to his automatic system check, so he pushes himself up onto his left elbow with a grunt. Knockout is at his knee, and glances up.

“Morning, sunshine,” he drawls. “I didn’t expect you to fall asleep.”

“Whuh?” Skyslayer slurs. “Sleep?” Knockout blinks, then chuckles to himself and goes back to work.

“Your arm is fine, I cleaned the internal mechanisms without issue. I’m just finishing this up, and you’ll be right as rain.” He goes so far as to pat the delirious bomber on the shin. Skyslayer just stares at him, uncomprehending.

“Okay,” he says eventually, nodding. Some part of his mind was working, then. “Hungry,” he reports, immediately after. “Dinner with Megatron?”

Knockout, for what it’s worth, does  _ not  _ burst out cackling at this like he wants to.

“Sure, big guy. You can have dinner with Megatron.” He can’t help the bout of immature giggles that follow. Skyslayer just lies back, expelling a soft sigh. The displaced air whuffs across Knockout’s shoulder, and he glances up again. Semi-lucidity seems to have hit him like a train, and his eyes fixate on the ceiling, darting around without really seeing.

“I’m still mad at him,” he says, slowly.

“Mad? At Megatron? What for?” If nothing else, this is gossip fuel. He tilts his head up, curling his fingers around the collar still tight at his neck.

“Don’t like it,” he explains, mumbling.

“I see. Well, it’s for Soundwave, right? Don’t you want to be nice to him?”  _ That _ earns some noncommittal grumbles that sound distinctly like “maybe” and “probably”.

“I like Soundwave,” he eventually gives up. “And those… Eradicons.” He struggles a little around the term.

“Do you now?”

“Yes. Soundwave…” He inhales, sluggish, then tries to find a better word than what his drugged mind is offering. “Stuck-up. Bit of an ass.”

“But you still like him,” Knockout observes, keeping his gaze down on his work.

“Yes. Stuck-up but… pretty.” His head lolls to one side, and he lets out a whine. “I love him. I love him.”

“So why don’t you tell him?” He’s genuinely curious. Skyslayer technically holds rank, now.

“Because… stood me up… Eradicons better.”

“You love the  _ Eradicons?” _

“I want, to be, their, dad.” He pants it out, obviously having a hell of a time around the drugs in his system.

“Oh. You want to adopt them,” Knockout clarifies, more to himself.

“Yes!” Slayer sits up abruptly, startling the medic. “Mine,” he barks.

“Okay, okay. Yours,” he concedes, still withdrawn. He has to consciously un-clamp his plating from himself. “Lay back down, please.” He does so, laughing lowly.

“Mine,” he says, quieter. 

“Right. You said that already.”

“...Yes.” Skyslayer is fading fast, apparently tuckered out from the exertion of thinking and talking coherently. Before too much longer, he’s out like a light. Knockout’s just glad for his stillness, frankly.


	5. Chapter 5

“You’re looking spry,” Megatron observes. His eyes are still that unsettling lavender.

“Knockout gave me a clean bill of health.” He walks up, ignoring the stare. “He said there’s not even any recovery time from the treatment.”

“Good, because I’ve got another assignment for you.”

“Do you now?”

“Yes. We’re going to strip down a mine.” Skyslayer eyeballs him sidelong.

“Why do I get the sense that there’s more to it than that?”

“You would be right, but it’s nothing serious. The  _ Nemesis _ will be arriving within the hour, and I need you in the air to ensure there are no Autobot surprises waiting for us.”

“Who’s coming with me?”

“The twins. Keep them focused.” He waves in dismissal, and the bomber makes his way back out, heading toward the upper decks. Skyquake and Dreadwing arrive just then, ambling closer.

“Afternoon,” he greets. They nod to him.

“Afternoon. Ready for the sweep?”

“I am. How are we gunna do this?”

“Skyquake and I can establish the outer perimeter. You can sweep the inner ring. Your sensors are more acute than either of ours at long range; we’ll have to fly low and quick.”

“Mine are a  _ bit _ better, brother,” Skyquake pouts, only to get some inscrutable look.

“We have the same altmode.”

“Yes, but mine are better.” Dreadwing’s expression morphs from unknown to  _ nonplussed. _

“Let’s just go.”

“Hang on,” Skyslayer interrupts, amidst some chuckling. “We should divvy this up better. Having you both out would make your job far shorter than mine. Goes without mention—we’re going to need to stay together, in case anything  _ does _ come up.”

“We would only be faster because of  _ your  _ typical cruising speed,” Skyquake argues.

“You are… rather more of a mildly aerodynamic brick than you are a proper aircraft,” Dreadwing admits. Skyslayer seems stunned for a moment before howling with laughter.

“Brick?!” he gasps. “I’ve been called a great many things, but never a  _ brick!” _

Even Dreadwing, stoic as he is, is infected by Slayer’s cackling. He grins to himself, chuckling lightly.

“Alright,” he says, dissipating the remaining laughter. “Let’s get going. The ship’s stopped, and Megatron will want our report.” He pats Skyslayer’s arm amicably, then tips his head to look at his twin. “Come, brother. Let’s get that head start.” He shoots a sly grin to the old warplane, who laughs again.

“You think you’re funny, do you?” he calls after the pair, charging into the air behind them.

“I do,” Dreadwing teases, waggling his wings before twisting into an elegant dive. Skyquake is at his side, right where he belongs, and they skim treetops toward the outer edges of the mine’s layout.

—

“I’m beginning to think this was an excuse to let everyone stretch their legs,” Skyslayer observes. He’s perched on a boulder, lounging partially against the sun-warmed rock and fanning his wings and tailfins to bask. It feels good, getting a bit of sunlight after a good fly. Dreadwing is parked half behind, half next to his twin, picking twigs and other detritus out of his kibble from their roughhousing earlier.

“I don’t doubt that,” Skyquake says, tone soft with content. Apparently Dreadwing is doing a good job.

“He does care about his mecha,” Dreadwing points out. “It just may seem like he doesn’t because of wartime conditions.”

“You’re probably right. I haven’t known the guy as long as either of you.”

“Yet, you’ve caught his eye,” the green jet teases.

“One could argue he’s done the same of us,” his brother adds.

“Wait, are you confessing you like me?  _ Dreadwing? _ You actually like someone that isn’t your brother?” Dreadwing flushes, plating fluffing a bit defensively. Skyslayer almost laughs at him.

“Perhaps I am,” he bites. He’s shifted to be behind Skyquake, away from his gaze.

“Oh, ignore him. He’s just grumpy you noticed.” He flaps a hand, but jolts, shooting a glare back. “Don’t you go pinching my ailerons, brother, you know I’m right.” He gives an undignified squawk as he’s suddenly shoved over.

“Well, if it means anything, I don’t mind it,” Slayer interrupts. They both look to him, straightening themselves out.

“You… don’t?”

“No. Why would I?” A long silence draws, neither able to come up with a satisfactory answer. Skyslayer grunts, and hefts himself off the boulder, going to join them on the soft grass. He grabs them both in one-armed hugs, dragging them into his chassis and grinning. “Well, now that I know, there’s no backing out.”

“And just what would that entail?”

“Oh, Dreadwing, I’m glad you asked. You better prep yourself for me nagging you both constantly for attention, and being incredibly touchy-feely.” To emphasize that, he reaches and hooks his hands round the vents on their sides, dragging them even closer. Skyquake seems fine with this development, and slips his own arm around the bomber, nuzzling into his collar.

“I’m alright with that,” Dreadwing confesses, resting his head on his other shoulder. Their wings brush, and he feels electric happiness he hasn’t in a long time.

“You’re also going to have to share. Megatron doesn’t like me being with anyone else.”

“He will learn to share, too,” Skyquake says, leaving no room for argument. Slayer just grunts, pressing his jaw to his forehead affectionately.

—

He’s flying the patrol route again. His pure endurance and argent-based fuel efficiency means he lasts longer than the Energizer bunny plus the twins put together. He sweeps a copse of trees, picking up Autobot signatures. He can’t distinguish who, but he drops a ping to Soundwave.

A moment later, he’s joined by an unfamiliar batch of Eradicons. He flies lower, going right over them as a warning. They start running.

He shifts and lands, old mud and rock cracking under his weight. The Eradicons join him.

It’s Optimus Prime, Bumblebee, Bulkhead,  _ and _ Arcee. They’re all standing there, watching him. The Eradicons are staring back, ready to call their weapons.

“Skyslayer,” Optimus begins. “Let us by.” The drones all aim at his head.

“Stand down,” the bomber mutters. He writes another ping and skips the middleman, sending it directly to Megatron. “I won’t kill you, Prime. But I won’t let you through.” He pulls the Crucible off his hip, summoning the blade. They almost look impressed. Arcee tips her head away, clearly comming Ratchet with the update.

“You’ve gotta let us through,” Bulkhead protests.

“I have specific orders not to,” he counters, shifting his grip.

“Are you a con, now?” he demands. “‘Cause if you  _ are…” _

“What, Bulkhead? Are you going to attack me? Because I can  _ assure  _ you, that won’t work out.” He just had to keep them occupied for a moment longer.

“If your only goal is to obstruct us, then we will remove you,” Optimus says, switching his hands out for his cannons. The other Autobots follow suit.

Right then, Megatron decides to show up, landing behind the bomber and walking up.

“I will take it from here,” he says, dismissing the Eradicons. They back off, but Slayer stays put.

“I think the fuck not,” he retorts. “Not with your head like it is.” Arcee looks surprised, glancing to Bumblebee and Bulkhead. Both shrug.

Bulkhead gets an idea, and whispers a quick “cover me” before stepping back, making a call. He’s talking quickly, occasionally shooting a look over to the still-arguing pair of Decepticons.

Megatron suddenly snaps something, and turns to fire at the Autobots.

All Hell breaks loose. More Eradicons drop in, bolstering the ranks but promptly dropping like flies. Megatron is shooting as steady as ever, calling orders amidst the din. Skyslayer slinks backward, putting the now-asleep Crucible back on his hip.

Suddenly, his long-range sensor reports a contact. Unfamiliar, but he’s read the reports. Looks like Bulkhead called in a favor. He turns, running back away from the combat zone, leaping into the air. He transforms, throttling his engines hard and nosing up.

Megatron yells at him over comm, but he’s fixed on this contact, every sensor in his net feeling invisibly across the air for this ship. He’s still climbing hard, but levels off when he’s midway between the clouds and ground.

_ There. _ He banks, zeroing in. He even accesses the technically-illegal wavelength it’s using.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” he almost purrs, pushing himself to go faster, to catch up with the fleeing craft. He could play a bit of cat and mouse.

“Keeping you occupied while my friends whip yours.” He checks on the cons reflexively at that, finding the line still held.

“Seems your friends are having a hard time regardless.” He tracks the shape in the sky, following it with that infamous persistence. It suddenly stops, diving and peeling off.

He grumbles, but follows easily enough. This might be the  _ one _ time he regrets picking an old-fashioned bomber. Still, he flew closer. His engines seemed to sigh at the slightly thicker air here.

He narrows down on the position again, and opens comm back up.

“Ah, I’ve got old artillery pieces here. Wonder what they do,” he taunted. He peppered the back end with bullets, pleased by how it staggered midair. He follows it to the ground, shifting modes mid-dive and landing in a crouch. He slinks closer, readying his shotgun.

There’s a hiss, and he twists to react, shotgun aiming reflexively for their head. A sword, slender and curved, bites into his neck cabling.

“It seems we’re at an impasse,” the Autobot observes, staring down the glowing red barrel of his shotgun. He doesn’t dare nod against the sword to his throat, but grins.

“So it seems. However, I believe I hold advantage.” The sword moves, slamming his arm up right as he fires. He snarls and goes to throw a hook, but gets kicked back. Something trills and he looks down at the grenade stuck to his shoulder.

“Fuck,” he manages, ripping it off and throwing it up hard. The heat and blast knock him back, but he scrambles back to his feet. He fires blind, dust and leftover warmth making his sensors all but useless. There’s a swear—near miss—and that same trilling. He can’t see it. He can’t see it!

He scrambles to escape, shifting his hand and bolting out of the dust cloud. That’s when he realizes it’s not just a grenade, it’s a damned shaped charge, and it’s stuck just under the overlap of plating in his back. He can’t get it.

Panic grips him suddenly, and he twists, grasping uselessly and flexing his wings to try and knock it loose. There’s a laugh behind him and he  _ moves, _ lunging at Wheeljack. His hands are practically around the Autobot’s neck when he lifts an arm.

Slayer freezes. Death is staring him in the face. The detonator, gripped in those stocky, rounded-off hands. His eyes are bloomed wide, catching every single detail in hyper-sharp clarity. He looks up at Wheeljack’s face, that smug look.

“What was that, about advantages?” he drawls. Skyslayer’s processor is working overtime, calculating the blast size, their own proximity, the time delay.

“If it goes off this close, I’ll bring you with me,” he concludes. Wheeljack blinks. Clearly, he hadn't considered that. Strange. It brings a grin to his face. “Some demolitions expert you are,” he mocks. “Can’t even figure up the blast radius of his own explosives.”

“Your fatass will block the majority of the effect. I’ll be fine.” His blue eyes narrow.

“And what of the explosives  _ I’m  _ carrying?” he bluffs. “I’m a bomber, after all. Plus the ballistics I’ve got. Those’ll cook off. And all the energon in my tanks. What about that?” Wheeljack has fallen silent, clearly running over his own calculations. He actually bought the bluff.

“Impasse number two,” he mumbles, half-amused. Just then, a familiar voice calls out.

“Wheeljack! Fall back!” Optimus Prime bellows, gesturing. The Wrecker grins, ducking away from the far larger Decepticon and transforming mid-stride. He guns it, sending dust and debris back.

“Have fun with that bomb!” he called, setting off the detonator the second he hit minimum safe distance.

The trilling stopped, and one long chime met the bomber’s audio sensors. He couldn’t even get out a curse before he felt it. Heat-piercing pain-sound rang through his mind.

Megatron curses, coming to a halt at the edge of the dust. The moment the Autobots had pulled back, he’d started moving to help his Second, but now—

But now, there is the creak and scrape of panelling, of struts. The dust settled, even Wheeljack flipping back to root mode in confusion as he skidded to a stop. A shape moved in the cloud, rising slowly at first but regaining strength, and with it, speed.

“Next time,” Skyslayer spits, “double-tap.” He charges out of the cloud, eyes trailing streaks of red. Wheeljack cursed, booking it toward Optimus. They meet just as the bomber arrives, mind long drowned under rage by that point. He swings at the demo expert, missing barely enough that his spiked knuckles left scoring across his white-and-green paint. The Prime moves in, knocking him back bodily.

He roars, turning his attention to the larger mech and swiping his talons. They deflect off a heavily plated forearm, and a fist smashes into his faceplate, crumpling even  _ his  _ armor; the rebreather falls aside, snapped clean off. He snarls, mandibles flexing as he steps closer, turning the momentum from that single motion into a blow with the force of a freight train. They trade hits, Skyslayer moving impossibly fast and dealing strike after strike after _ strike. _ Optimus grunts, then, attempting more to deflect and redirect those wild swipes rather than run the risk of absorbing them while trying to retaliate.

The bridge opens, and Optimus ducks one last hook, scrambling back ungracefully toward the safety of it. He sees Megatron in the periphery of his vision, but ignores him in favor of turning, hurrying away. He’s got a berserking bomber still at his back, after all—until he doesn’t. He never pauses though, running through the groundbridge like his spark depends on it. Frankly, it probably does.

Megatron manages to hook a hand around the crook of Slayer’s arm, pulling him back. He snarls, drunk on the taste of his own Argent-infused energon and eager to draw more of the glittering blue fluid. Still, he’s dragged away, Skyquake and Dreadwing helping to restrain him even as he thrashes.

“Lay him down,” Megatron grunts, keeping his own grip. They force him to the ground, struggling. He can feel the blind rage fading, losing its steel grip over him. He blinks and his eyes bloom from those crazed, red pinpricks. He heaves air in, feeling like he had just been run through and set on fire. He groans weakly, head lolling back.

“Are you alright?” Skyquake says, leaning in. Worry writes itself into his faceplates.

“Yeah. I’m okay.” He sits up slowly, silently grateful for the solid, warm hand at his back, supporting him. “I didn’t… I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?” He looks around at the mecha surrounding him, rubbing his head ineffectually.

“No. Let’s get you to Knockout,” Dreadwing says, helping him up. His twin helps with his other side, and he slumps, thankful, into their grasps. Megatron simply calls for the groundbridge, trailing them in.


	6. Chapter 6

He wakes up from that blissful unconsciousness with a line fed under the seam of his arm, glowing a delicate blue. He lifts his head, vision quickly clearing to the now-familiar sharpness. Knockout is cleaning, and turns a bit to him.

“Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling?”

“Okay, I think.” He touches his chest thoughtfully, then opens the hefty plating. His human self climbs up, fresh as a daisy and completely unscathed. Good. Both bodies look to Knockout. “Yup. I’m alright.”

“You have no idea how  _ weird _ that is,” he mumbles, expression pinched between nervousness and amusement. He watches the human settle back in, strapping himself down once more and closing the plating.

“I can imagine. Probably as weird as looking at yourself and getting a feedback loop.” He shakes his head a bit, sitting up slowly and wincing. “Damn, what happened to me?”

“Well, according to Soundwave—who checked on you  _ four separate times,  _ I might add—you were hit by a shaped charge and proceeded to shrug it off and attack the Autobots in a…” He lifted the datapad with the report, “‘ _ blind, unstoppable anger’.  _ Apparently, you gave Optimus Prime quite the scare, and it took both of the twins as well as Megatron to hold you down.”

Skyslayer pinches his mandibles in some inscrutable expression.

“Wonderful,” he says, laden with sarcasm. “So you aliens are far more temperamental.”

“I would argue that you’re one of us,” Knockout said. He seemed pleased to have a bit of banter.

“I’m human first and foremost, and those behaviors were because I hadn’t expected this body to be so receptive of those little hellish perks I’ve picked up.” He points a claw down to the datapad. “The rage? Normally it’s just a burst of a modified type of Argent plasma, held in the grip of one blood magic or another. I must’ve set it off unintentionally, somehow.”

“Your Pit is freaky,” he murmurs, but nods at him to continue.

“As for… shrugging off the charge? I didn’t.”

“What?”

“It killed me.” Knockout blinks.

“So… are you some kind of hallucination, or…?”

“Oh no, I’m good and alive right now. That’s a newer trick of mine.”

“So what,” the medic scoffs, “you’re too angry to die, or something like that?”

“Doc, you don’t know how right you are.”

“...I was  _ joking. _ Are you telling me you seriously just, set off that whole angry thing and not die?”

“Kinda.” Slayer shrugs. Knockout looked a little shaken, but quickly covers it over with his typical smooth confidence.

“Well. Megatron wanted to meet with you when you woke up, and you seem to be in good health.” He steps up, carefully removing the line and wiping away the bead of excess.

“Thanks for the help,” he says sincerely, before sliding off the berth and stretching. No point in getting on Knockout’s bad side. He trots off, feeling pretty damn good.

Only to have that mood kicked down by the sight of Megatron, steaming in his own little world, lavender eyes narrow as he mumbles to himself.

“If you’re just going to do this, I’m going to leave,” he says, flat. Megatron jolts out of his reverie and turns, the corner of his mouth twitching almost-imperceptibly toward a frown.

“I wanted to talk,” he replies, evenly. “About your behavior.”

“Behavior?” he asks, walking up. He doesn’t stop his tailfins and plating from fanning and fluffing.

“Yes. You seem to have ensnared my spark, as well as… others’.” He frowns properly now. “I disapprove of this, but clearly my discipline has no hold over you.”

“You’re right,” he says, cocking his head. “Is this about Dreadwing and Skyquake?”

“And  _ Soundwave, _ of all mecha.” Skyslayer blinks, surprised.

“So his visits were more pointed than I thought.”

“Yes.” Megatron doesn’t hide his annoyance. It makes the bomber uneasy, but he says nothing of it.

“So, what? You want me to… turn them down?”

“Preferably; you, however, hold no such inclinations. As I am  _ frustratingly  _ aware.” Slayer just grins, angling his jaws in amusement. Pissing off those who think they can control him is a great source of entertainment.

“Looks like you’re going to have to learn how to share, eh?”

“I know how,” the warlord sniffs.

“But you don’t want to in this case. Shame, because it’s either you share with them, or we cut this off.” Megatron looks to him, seeming  _ surprised. _

“You’re meaning to tell me—if I don’t tolerate other mecha dating my partner, you will remove me from the equation altogether?”

“Snip snip,” he says. There’s something wicked in his grin. He even dares to waggle his claws like scissors.

“I am electing to ignore how immature this is,” he deadpans. “Fine.”

“Good!” he says, tone mocking. “You’re figuring this out.”

“You are damnably insufferable.”

“Need I remind you that  _ you _ fell for  _ me, Lord _ Megatron?” he cocks a hip, still grinning.

“Silence,” he mutters, but there’s no bite behind it. He flaps a hand dismissively to the bomber, who laughs.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d almost call you disinterested.” He steps in front of him, eyes softening in their constant blaze. He settles a hand lightly over the chipped and scratched purple insignia on his chest.

“Disinterested in what? Your ceaseless mocking?” He tilts his head, clasping his own hand over the talons. “I swear, you’re worse than Starscream when he thinks I can’t hear.” Slayer barks a laugh.

“ _ There’s _ the terrible old gladiator who stole my heart,” he wheedles. “That purple crap is making it so hard to love you. You know that?” He fixes a stare up, and Megatron falls silent for a long moment.

“I’m sorry,” he finally murmurs. “I never expected it to affect me so much.”

“Well, it did.” He suddenly jerks his hand, hooking claws into the layered armor of his collar, yanking him down. Even despite the strength and force in the movement, he seems almost shy or hesitant to follow through with a fluttering kiss. “Fix it,” he says, hard compared to the softness of just a second ago.

“I don’t know if I can,” he confesses.

“Try,” Skyslayer demands, pushing him back. He has to step back, surprised by the aggression.

“What if I… made it up to you somehow?”

“Depends,” he says, deceptively calm. The warlord recognizes enough flier body language to know that Skyslayer is not only peeved, but plain  _ upset. _ It’s simply buried.

“Shockwave sent me a report on some weapon prototypes he needs testing telemetry from. Knowing your history, I was reserving the majority of the tests for you.”   
  


“Hold up. You’re telling me Shockwave sent you a bunch of guns.”

“...Yes.”

“And you’re only  _ just now telling me?!” _ Megatron jerks a bit at the holler.

“Er. Yes?” Skyslayer flips his hand, palm-up, and points at it.

“Gimme.” At a puzzled look, he wiggles his claws. “Megs. In Hell, the name of the  _ game  _ was guns! I wanna give these things a test run.” He gently pushes the greedy hand down, amused by the nickname and eagerness.

“I had a feeling you’d like it. The weapons are waiting belowdecks. Soundwave wishes to join us. He explained that his recordings would help Shockwave’s process.”

“Yeah, cool, whatever. New guns!” The bomber is practically bouncing now.

—

Disused breakers clank on, old lights bathing the area in a blueish-white glow. Tables surrounded the L-shaped room at the bottom, near the entrance.

“The firing range,” Megatron presented. “We don’t use it often, clearly.” Skyslayer doesn’t respond. He only has eyes for what’s  _ on _ the tables.

The first thing he checks out looks almost like Dreadwing’s heavy laser cannon. He tips it curiously, examining it with an appreciative eye. He glances over to the rest, moving to check out a long rifle.

“Sniping was never my cup of tea,” he comments. Megatron grunts a bit, looking amused.

“Noted.”

“How many does he want me to test?”

“As many as you like. The rest, Dreadwing will test.”

“Any of these I can’t try here?”

“Only two. Those.” He gestures to a mounted gun and shoulder-mounted launcher of some sort. “Even with the simulated rounds, they are… a bit much.”

“Fair enough,” he concedes, chuckling. He picks up a small rifle, tipping it this way and that in his hands. “What’s this for?”

“That and the heavy pistol there are for those of us who don’t use our T-cogs in arming ourselves.”

“I see.” He turned to one of the lanes, still examining it. It was boring-looking, and when he squeezed off a shot, boring to handle. “Lame,” is all he says.

“Is this your… professional opinion?”

“Yes.” He grins a bit at that and sets it back on the table.

“Not everything can be a fusion cannon.”

“Why not? It’s more enjoyable that way. I had a few guns that could rival that thing.” He nods to it, grin widening.

“We  _ do _ have smaller mecha aboard,” he reminds.

“Mm. Killjoy.” He picks up the heavy cannon, testing the weight of it against his hip. Good and weighty, but not too much to have him struggling in combat.

“We’ll be here a while,” Megatron murmurs down to Soundwave, who simply tilts his helm as if to say  _ and it’s your fault. _

—

Night on the  _ Nemesis’s  _ flight deck usually consists of nobody being there and the moon making everything look ghostly and pale. Now, it was only the latter; Skyslayer is parked up on one of the big spurs off the aft, the engine rumbling under his back.

He watches the stars, silent and patient. He’s thinking about Megatron. Again.

“Dunno what to do about him,” he mumbles. He shutters his eyes closed, seeing the purple glow from his eyes instead of the soothing, familiar red. He opens them again, finding an incoming comm on his HUD. With a sigh, he accepts it. There, on his visor, is the scarred face of the  _ last _ person he wants to see right now.

“Skyslayer,” Silas says sourly.

“You again?” he asks, rolling his eyes. Silas looks unamused.

“I don’t appreciate you putting my men in the ground.”

“Come after me aggressively and I’ll respond with aggression,” he deadpans.

“You ought to know better than to attack us the way you have been.”

“Silas.  _ You don’t scare me. _ If you want to threaten me that bad, come and talk to me. You can bitch after I’ve pulped you and your asswipes.”

“Foulmouthed machine,” he grumbles, to someone off-camera. “On the contrary. I want to talk.”

“So you called me to… what, exactly?”

“Invite you down.” Slayer scoffs, mandibles twitching around the noise.

“I don’t trust like that.” Silas smiles thinly.

“So bring a friend.” The comm cuts off abruptly, and he receives a set of coordinates. He sits up, shifting his wings under the moonlight to feel out the air. Headwind from the ship moving, but not much else. A buddy would be good, but who? Megatron isa definite no. Soundwave isoff-shift and wouldn’t want to come anyway. The twins are probably asleep. That left… Starscream, and Knockout.

Quickly making that choice, he pushes himself down, sliding off the massive spike of metal and trotting belowdecks.

—

“You do realize your average cruising speed is nearly double mine, right?” Knockout asks, chin tucked in the arc of his shoulderpiece. He’s watching Skyslayer amble along, expression thoughtful.

“Yeah.”

“And you realize that’s going to be a problem, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So?” He lifts his head, looking almost startled.

“So what?”

“So, what are you going to do about that?”

“I… haven’t gotten that far,” he confesses, shrugging. They’re almost to the secondary flight deck. Knockout looks away, staring off at the samey, dark purple walls. Without their nav systems, it was a wonder if they didn’t get lost.

“Do you just want to like… meet up somewhere?” Knockout asks. “Outside of the MECH base, I mean. There’s probably somewhere dark we can rendezvous at before heading in, right?”

“I’ve been there a couple times,” he muses, “and I don’t remember anywhere particularly unsupervised.”

“Maybe a bit further then. Within walking distance, at least?”

“Maybe, yeah.” He pauses. “I don’t know the area well enough from the ground,” he admits.

“Fair enough. I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” They turn together into the flight deck, and Knockout heads to the main console, typing something in. “I’ll head down the gravlift. Keep in comm range, hey?”

“My range is longer than yours,” he points out.

“I mean mine. Stay close.”

“I can’t buzz rooftops, Knockout,” he says, chuckling all the while. “People are gunna start calling in other people and that’s how ‘cons get shot down. If that happened…”

“...Megatron would have both our heads.”

“Precisely. He’s going to anyway, if he finds out I  _ agreed _ to meet with MECH.” He shrugs then, walking over toward the main doorway. “See you there,” he offers before hitting the button and leaping out.

The night is cold, honestly, and he shudders halfway through his transformation sequence, jarring a few plates before they snap into place. He eases into his throttle, catching the headwind and nosing up a touch; just enough to get some proper lift. He notes the gravlift dropping from the belly of the ship, and decides to circle around. Didn’t need  _ that _ much of a headstart, anyway.

He loops the nose of the  _ Nemesis, _ banking a lazy turn and keeping his speed low. Just enough to keep him in the air, frankly.

“Knockout. Are you clear?”

“Yes. The lift’s headed back up, and I’m making my way to a road now.” He trails the signal, locking it and dipping down a little to get a better look.

“I’ll be your eyes and ears from on high,” he offers. Knockout doesn’t protest this, so he looks ahead. “Traffic looks light. If you can keep to emptier streets, you can probably push a dozen miles over the speed limit.”

“Bold of you to assume that’s not how I normally drive,” he teases.

“Fair enough. I don’t see many folks. Take that left coming up.” He watches the red car—little more than toy-sized at this altitude—veer over to the left. “Easy. I heard the screeching tires from here.”

For a while after that, it’s quiet. No need for directions; Knockout istracking him through the sky. Eventually, though…

“Almost there?” Knockout asks. “You’re on the fringes of my comm range.”

“Yeah, I can see it. I see a spot we can group up, too.” He tags it, flicking the databurst over the link and nosing into a dive. “...I have an idea,” he says. “Give me a second.”

“Slayer… I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Relax, it’ll just take me a sec.” He cuts his engines, angling back up into a glide. He has enough speed to keep going at this angle and slope for quite some time, if he plays this right. He rolls forward, flipping out of alt, and grins at the explosives in his fist. A few button-clicks later, and he baseball hucks them hard enough that he almost misses the shot to detonate them early. The airburst rattles the aircraft sitting on the tarmac and there’s a big cloud of smoke and crap to cover his modeshift and subsequent flight out.

“What in the name of  _ Primus  _ was that?!” Knockout hisses.

“That was some ninja shit is what  _ that _ was,” Slayer replies, giddy. He twists through the air, landing in a tidy crouch beside Knockout, who skids through a turn and flips into root.

“That was a stupid move, actually,” he corrects, looking over toward the base. Humans are coming out  _ en masse. _

“I can handle them. Have before.”

“Why did we come, anyway? You said to talk, right?”

“I only speak two languages: violence, and sarcasm.” He wiggles two claws in the air, and Knockout drops his face into his palms.

“Let me guess. This is the former, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.” He unfolds his arm partially, flicking out one of his altmode’s dozen guns.

“That’s a new trick,” Knockout notes as he lifts his head, pulling out his own shockprod.

“Like it? Shockwave made it possible.” He’s clearly grinning smugly under the gasmask, and flexes his forearm, giving the gun a cock.

“It’s  _ wonderful,”  _ Knockout deadpans. At least it garners him a big belly laugh. Slayer turns and starts walking, steady and keeping the gun up; for one crazy, dizzying,  _ surreal _ moment, Knockout realizes the way he walks is eerily like Megatron. Maybe it’s the build, right? Huge chassis could only move efficiently in a handful of ways. Maybe it was the weight of the weapon—the little machine gun was by no means the same scale or weight as a fusion cannon, but maybe it had hard recoil.

Knockout finally shakes away the thought, engaging the prod and making his way to circle around and scout things out. He keeps his shoulders tight and eyes peeled for motion—for a minute, there’s little or no activity—but all of a sudden a helicopter lifts out of the still-smoky base, hanging low a moment.

“Skyslayer. I invited you to  _ talk. _ Not bomb my base.”

“I didn’t hit anyone,” he calls, obviously annoyed. “It was a well-placed airburst.” Knockout notes the shuffling of people, and sends a textcomm over.

_ They’re going to get more machines into the air. _

He looks over, giving a single nod and continuing in his steady approach.

_ See if you can redirect them toward me. I have an idea. _

_ Last time you said that, it got us  _ into _ this mess. I don’t want any part of this. _

“Well?” Slayer finally hollers. “If you wanna talk so bad, why are you staying so quiet?”

“You’re planning something.” Slayer looks surprised for half a second before regaining his composure.

“Tapping into private comm is a dirty trick,” he snaps, and forgoes all pretense of playing diplomatic. Knockout wisely slips off into the dark, only his biolights giving him away.

Unfortunately, he has the bad idea to look up at the sky. He sees the expected gamut of human craft… and the sleek, curved form of a distinctly  _ alien _ flier. The raked-forward wings and familiar hiss of engines make it blatantly clear who it is.

“Slayer. We’ve… encountered a snag,” he says, hurriedly stuffing his prod away and diving into alt, taking off with a screech of rubber. The poorly-kept road plays havoc with him, but he peels away anyway.

“Is that snag ten meters tall, chrome, and pissed off at me?”

“Sure is. Nice knowing you, but I’m  _ out!”  _ He drives out of comm range, only catching a snatch of Slayer swearing under his breath.

He folds away the gun, tailfins upright and stiff in defiance. Megatron lands with a crash, cracking and cratering old asphalt. He doesn’t look happy, for sure.

“I would ask if you have an explanation, but frankly I don’t want to hear it,” he snarls. Slayer just glowers silently for a while.

“Even if I did, I wouldn’t be telling you,” he finally sniffs, turning away. Only to be forcefully turned back, being stared down by those horrible violet eyes. He shrugs off the hand roughly, growling.

“This rebellious streak has got to  _ end. _ Now.”

“Yes, and I’ll just stop killing demons too. Fucking dumbass.”

“You could just as easily funnel your energy into something useful, like finding Airachnid.”

“As if I actually want to go looking for her.” Megatron pauses, thinking fast.

“If you find her and capture her alive, then once I am finished you may have free reign.” Slayer goes to retort something, only to freeze and blink.

“...Free reign?” he asks, slowly.

“Yes. Free reign. In fact… if you are willing, I would like to watch you.” Slayer considered this, tilting his head a little. He does, however, break focus to glare over at the encroaching heli.

“Gladly. After I deal with this.”

“Slayer,” he coaxes. “The humans are fools for stoking your temper. Let them be—they aren’t worth your time or ammunition.”

“You make a good point, and I hate that.” Megatron chuckles, pulling his slowly-relaxing bomber close to whisper into his ear.

“Come now… if you leave them now, I’ll come with you on another trip to Hell.”

“You’d do that?” he asks, looking honestly hopeful. It was cute.

“Yes. But you need to leave.”

“Alright. Fine. I’ll look for Airachnid in the morning. I think I have a lead.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheehee. Filler chap!
> 
> Featuring an obnoxious pencil, and Slayer getting roasted for having one single brain cell. :D

Skyslayer stretches, enjoying the content he always feels after burning off the simmering frustrations that plague him. Nothing for stress relief quite like pulling demons apart with your bare hands. He settles, then, nestling himself  _ firmly  _ against Megatron’s side. He even has his mask off, and breathes in the comforting smell of blood and steel.

“I could stay right here all day long,” he said happily, mashing his face into the multi-layered armor of his partner’s neck.

“Yes, I agree. But you made a deal with me.” Still, a large hand goes up to rub in the middle of his back, stroking between his wings before roving upward. His eyes dilate, dimming in content.

“I know. I’m just so comfy. Can’t I deal with her tomorrow?”

“I suppose, but the sooner you do it, the better.” He turns, affectionately bumping Slayer’s helm with his jaw. “She has information I want to keep out of the enemy’s hands.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He sighs, shuttering his eyes for a long moment and just relishing in the warmth of the warlord’s chassis. It was times like this that he almost wishes the whole world would stop… stop everything. No more demons, no more war, no more anything. It is selfish, but having this comfort, this happiness, is something he wants to last.

Still, he expels a sigh out of his exposed set of vents, psyching himself up to crawl out of the cozy snuggling.

“You can come back and get more,” Megatron reassures.

“I know. Leaving it just sucks.” He sits up halfway, looking back at him. His eyes are shut, the purple hidden away. This way, it almost feels normal. Normal as things could get around here, anyway. He makes a mental note to try and find a way to fix all that, since Megatron himself wasn’t.

For now, though, he leans down to steal a peck on one of those high cheekbones, then slips off. He closes the door behind himself, letting the old gladiator rest a while. The warm, tingly feeling that always follows where his hand brushed sticks around even when Slayer is in the air, flying out to the  _ Harbinger. _

“You again?!” Starscream shrieks over short range comm. He cringes in his armor at the octave it hits.   
  
“Yes, me again,” he drawls, shutting off his engines to glide the rest of the way to the crashed warship. He lands with a light  _ squelch, _ making a face; wet season. Nasty. His feet stick in the mud, slowing him just enough for it to be annoying. Starscream pokes his head out almost cartoonishly, and looks around before his eyes settle on Skyslayer.

“Go away,” he snaps, and vanishes again.

“This time I just want to talk,” he replies, keeping his tone as civil as he can manage. He walks to where the seeker had just been, poking his head in and promptly yanking it back out. He already had scars from those claws, no need for more.

“ _ Talk,” _ Starscream scoffs. “Talk  _ nothing!  _ You want something.”

“Yes. I want information on Airachnid.” He pokes his head back in, this time wedging an arm in. He squeezes his vents shut for a moment, wriggling his way into the welded-mostly-shut entrance. He leaves green paint, but that was the last of his concerns right now. Especially when he gets to his feet and finds himself staring down at a missile aimed point-blank at his face.

“Out!” Starscream hisses. Slayer, for what it’s worth, just sighs and sets his face in a hand, clearly unimpressed by the weapon pointed at him.

“Oh for—” he huffs, lifting his head. “You literally just watched how much effort it took me to get  _ in.” _

“I don’t care!” He yelps when his arm is suddenly grabbed, missile trapped in that iron fist as Slayer leans in, a mix of irritation and that persistent deadpan look all over his faceplates. 

“Just give me her last known position and I’ll leave you be.”

“...For what?” He tilts his head, regarding the bomber sidelong.

“So I can pull her into scrap. Why else would I care?” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and Starscream’s brows slowly pull down.

“ _ You _ want to kill Airachnid? For what? You generally have a pattern, and she doesn’t particularly fit it.”

“Pattern?” He narrows his eyes a little. “You’ve been watching me?”

“Not particularly. You’re just predictable. Now, why do you want to kill her?”

“None of your beeswax,” he grumbles. He also finally lets go of Starscream’s arm, watching him rub at the spot, eyes averting thoughtfully. “I just want her location.” There’s a pause as he examines the shallow dents in his scrawny forearm, then a stretch while he slides his eyes up.

“Implying I won’t be leading you there,” he mutters. “Did Knockout pick your braincase?”

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it. Now, you want information,” he starts, slowly. “Information I have.”

“...Yes?” Slayer tips his head one way, then the other. Like looking at him from different angles will help.

“And this is… what, put into play by Megatron?” he guesses, grinning a tiny bit when Slayer blinks in surprise.

“...Yeah.” He squints. “Why?”

“Well, he would certainly hate to lose her. She might have valuable intel too.”

“He did mention something about capture. Or something she knew.” Starscream rolls a hand, as if trying to encourage Slayer’s little brain to connect the dots. “So… you want to come with me…”

“Yes.”

“...To capture Airachnid…”

“ _ Yes.” _

“So… you can watch me and Megatron pull her apart together?” He tries, voice pitching up into a squeak.

“Oh, Primus,” Starscream mutters, dropping his face into a hand. “No. So we can bring her back as a bargaining chip.”

“But why? Megatron already likes me. He might like me less, seeing how long this is taking.” He looks frustrated a second. “Can you just, tell me where she is? Please?”

“And miss out on a chance to regain favor? Absolutely not. Come on now, think with that tiny little processor of yours. Megatron is unhappy with me. Giving him Airachnid and telling him I helped would make him  _ quite  _ happy.”

“...But all you did is tell me where she’s at.” He doesn’t sound completely happy with being just short of called  _ stupid as hell, _ and narrows his eyes. “Of course, I could always… wait. No I can’t.” He blinks, eyes darting around as he thinks. “Shit.”

“...What?”

“I can’t just crack your head open. I need it to be in one piece,” Slayer growls, flexing a hand like he’s considering it anyway. 

Starscream looks almost surprised that he figured that out, eyes flicking to the heavy fist before darting back up.

“Yes. Yes you do.” He grins, suddenly. “Now, about Airachnid…”

—

“We had an… agreement,” Skyslayer explains awkwardly. He never quite meets Megatron’s glare head-on. Soundwave is at his side, watching the problem unfold. He’s just replayed Starscream’s conversation with the bomber; Megatron’s not happy about it.

“An agreement that tips our hand in his favor,” he reminds.

“Look, I wasn’t really thinking about that. I just was focused on finding her. He talked me into a corner. Like you’re doing right now. I hate that.” He scrubs his face with a hand, tailfins dipping low. “I’m not that goddamn smart, okay? Sue me. A few millennia of relying on my reaction time over my smarts has done that.”

“I should’ve seen this,” the warlord sighs, dismissing Soundwave wordlessly. The spy lingers only a second before padding away, seeming to think about it.

“Seen what? That I’m dumb and violent? Newsflash, that’s literally how I’ve always been. Strong moral compass does not a smart person make, Megs.”

“Excuse me?” He raises a brow at the nickname.

“You hired, a stupid guy, with huge biceps, into a leadership position,” he spells out, gestures included. “Yes, you should’ve seen this. Before you even appointed me.”

“Stupid…? Slayer.” He shakes his head, chuckling. That was creepy. “You are far more clever than you give yourself credit. Yes, you’ve given Starscream what he wants, but you’ve also lead him back to me. He is at his best when at my side.”

“That’s a funny way of saying ‘ _ he mopes unless he’s second-in-command’,” _ he notes. “Does this mean I lose my job?”

“No, you will remain my effective second. Just allow him to think you’ve been demoted,” he advises.

“Riiight. Well. Glad we had this talk. I think. I thought you were going to… chew… my… Megatron?” He waves in front of his face, leaning in to that dead purple gaze. Suddenly he turns, walking away. “Okay. I say this a lot, but what the fuck’s his problem?”

“Enough…” he mutters, leaving the bridge. Slayer watches him leave, confused and more than a little concerned.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:D
> 
> tw for some uh, p standard violence stuff. rip megan.

He’d been ambling past the medbay when he’s knocked bodily into the wall, startling him so bad that he can’t draw up a reaction. Then he registers who it is, what’s going on, and twists to face it head-on.

“Megatron,” he gasps. “What are you doing?!” He snatches and squeezes the warlord’s wrist, pushing it back. The shard glimmered, brightening as his eyes grew more intense. Circuitry glowed that same eerie purple, and Megatron pushed back just as hard.

“Bringing you closer. Quieting the voices.” He twists his arm, wrenching it free and shouldering Skyslayer back, shoving him to the wall harder and abusing his wings’ hypersensitivity. In those precious moments while he was frozen by his own systems, he slams the shard home. It intensifies, sucking into his chestplates as if  _ alive. _ He wails, clawing at the armor in animal desperation even as it perfuses into him, staining his biolights the same sickly violet.

The link forges near-instantly, and Megatron gasps in a cold breath when he feels that familiar rage brush so intimately against his mind. He loosens his grip, stepping back and letting the bomber slump to the ground, going unconscious. For a fragment of time, he panics, feeling the new link go dark as fast as it had been made.

He hunkers down, pulling an arm up and across his shoulders, tugging the blacked out warmecha up to his feet. He hefts the heavy bot and starts shuffling him to the medbay, awkwardly scooping him up. This close, the dark energon in both of them is making him see spots; the link is so strong, it’s like a sparkbond but so, so  _ twisted. _

He gets to Knockout’s door, feeling black creep in the edges of his vision, when suddenly it fades. The persistent cold at the other end of the link is gone now, replaced by the intensity of a million million suns. He’s shocked into dumping Skyslayer, stumbling back a bit to try and get a grip on himself.

He’s  _ up _ and he’s  _ moving _ and oh, he’s angry. This wasn’t the usual low burn of irritation, or even the anger he felt when he’d seen what Hayden had done, oh  _ no. _ This was new, and it was in a league of its own. The shit in his chest squirms, slamming against the inside of his spark chamber, it feels like, guiding him. Reaching.

_ Monster. _

_ Infector. _

**_There._ **

He drags Megatron up, relishing in the way the warlord’s mouth flaps silently, eyes wide as they’ll go. He twists, throwing him hard into the wall. He never gives him even a second and advances fast, throwing a hook when he tries to get up. The scrape of teeth against his knuckles only speeds this along. He pounces on Megatron, digging his claws in roughly and snarling at the dazed look. He couldn’t tap out this early, no! Slayer has yet to feel the full satisfaction of this.

He drops him, standing up and glaring up when Knockout opens the door. Nothing draws him to the medic, so he ignores him for now, focusing back down on Megatron. A psychedelic mix of energons bleeds from his lips, purple and blue swirling together. Slayer kneels suddenly, driven by his own frustration and the little part of him that feels still-sane.

Megatron seems to regain his bearings and looks at him, brows pulled low as he sneers, only to be grabbed and dragged up into a wild, forceful kiss. He gasps against it, tasting nothing but his own energon. He digs his claws roughly into the small of Slayer’s back.

“Fuck you,” the bomber snarls, biting him hard. He shudders, the dark link raging between them.

“While that would certainly be good stress relief for both of you, I don’t recommend you do that while hopped up on dark energon. Or laying in the hall, for that matter,” Knockout points out. Slayer shoots him a surly glare, wiping up the mess on his mandibles and licking it up without a second thought.

“While that is very attractive,” Megatron croaks, “Knockout is right.” He’s silenced by another blow to his face, sending his eyes rolling back.

“You, shut  _ up,” _ Slayer hisses. He stands again, this time dragging the warlord up. Knockout gapes in shock; he knew firsthand just how  _ heavy _ Megatron was, and there was Skyslayer, lifting him as if it were nothing. But, ah, Soundwave  _ had  _ played the footage of the spacebridge fight; Megatron said the Terrorcons’ strength was his too. Maybe Slayer was just borrowing some.

“Oh s—” he gasps, realizing suddenly what’s happening past his musing. He ducks out of the way, slinging himself at the medbay wall to escape many tons’ worth of  _ thrown _ warlord. Megatron, in his infinite wisdom, struggles to his back and shoots blind at the enraged bomber. The shot’s knocked away and it nearly puts the lights out. Now Skyslayer’s wrapped a hand around his neck, gripping vital cabling; now he’s slamming a fist into the softer metal of the heatsinks on his waist. Megatron makes this sad little wheezing-whistle noise, shoving him off for a second of reprieve.

“Knockout,” he chokes, fresh energon of both types staining his lips. “Go…  _ go!” _ He takes that as a chance to run, stumbling slightly and trying not to shriek. Who would he get? Where would he go? If  _ Megatron _ couldn’t handle it,  _ who could? _

The twins first. Then the Insecticons. He’d go down the line then, get Breakdown. With a clear goal in mind, he properly takes off, running as fast as he can toward the bridge.

—

“What?” Skyquake asks. Knockout had just rushed up to him and his twin, breathlessly rambling. All he’d caught was ‘ _ Megatron, hurt’ _ and ‘ _ Slayer’ _ and something that  _ sounded _ like ‘dark energon’.   
  


“Megatron! He stuck…” Knockout gestures, searching for the word. “A shard, into Slayer, and now he’s gone off the rails!”

“He did  _ what?” _ Dreadwing demands, tone wavering into dangerous territory. The medic nearly flinches but looks to him.

“They’re in the medbay, Megatron told me to get help so I came to you. I’m going to stop by the Insecticons next and then Breakdown.”

“We can handle it,” he grumbles, and jerks his chin. “Let’s go, Skyquake.” The green jet just grunts, following him out. Knockout still scampers off belowdecks to the hive.

Dreadwing watches him go, narrowing his eyes. He turns his attention to his brother, silently urging him to run. He does, only glancing back to ensure his twin was following.

They make it to the medbay, skidding to a stop in near-synchrony. They’ve arrived to chaos. Megatron is still managing to put up something of a fight, but it won’t last with how things are going now. Skyquake rushes in, stopping Skyslayer from throwing something at Megatron. He manages to stun him long enough to get him pushed back—even just an inch would help.

“Dreadwing, check on Megatron,” he says, never once looking up from those crazed purple eyes. He does so, hunkering down and giving him a quick check. Still functioning, albeit not well. He drops a comm to Knockout, just as his brother’s thrown to the medbay wall with a deafening crash. His metal shrieks as he slides down, dazed. Dreadwing stands, expression hardening at his partner.

“Skyslayer,” he starts, sternly, “this isn’t you. Come on now. I know you and Megatron have your spats, but—”

“Shut  _ UP!” _ he roars, throwing a wild punch. Dreadwing catches it, shaking at the force of keeping it contained.

“Listen to me!” he cries, trying to come closer to talk sense into the haywire mecha. It only gets him headbutted and kicked back, belly plating pinging a dozen damage warnings onto his HUD. Skyquake jumps into the fray quite literally, pouncing on Slayer’s back and gripping him in a crushing hug that pins down his arms. Dreadwing gets the hint and piles himself on, keeping him weighed down. An Insecticon joins atop them, forcing Slayer to stop moving or risk damaging his sensitive wings. Still, he snarls and swears, suddenly jerking his weight to try and wriggle free. The Insecticon just hisses and digs talons into the medbay’s floor plates, preventing any of the four from so much as budging. 

Knockout hurries in with Breakdown, having the bigger bot scoop their leader onto a slab. Breakdown peers down at Slayer while Knockout starts his scans, wide yellow eyes fixed down on the thrashing bomber.

“I never thought this would happen,” he says softly. Knockout just sighs, still tense.

“If you can get him out without damaging anything, this might go smoother.” The Insecticon stands, allowing Dreadwing and Skyquake out of the way before it mirrors ‘Quake’s move, gripping Slayer so he couldn’t reach out and hit someone. He still struggles fervently, maybe even more violently now that he wasn’t being squashed under three heavy bots. Still, the Insecticon manages to drag him kicking and screaming out the medbay doors, even as one last threat crawls out of him.

“ _ I’ll never forget this, Megatron!” _

—

“Stasis, huh?” Skyquake asks, leaning over his partner and brushing his face gently with his knuckles. Skyslayer is unmoving on the medberth.

“Medically-induced. He’ll be fine. I’m trying to dilute the dark matter in his system; I remember him mentioning a surge of energy being the cause of this problem the first time. Although, this lasted much longer.” Knockout comes back with a syringe, carefully drawing another test-worth of energon. It’s violet, just like Megatron’s, but there’s something wrong about it, the way it refracts the light. Maybe that was the Argent’s effect.

“Longer?”

“Yes. Remember? You and Dreadwing managed to pull him out of it last time. You didn’t this time.”

“Ah. I had assumed it was just because of the combination.”

“It might be. Actually, has he told you anything about this? About any of this?”

“No. Dreadwing doesn’t know either. Megatron is the only one that might, and…” He tips his head, looking almost solemn for a beat.

“He’s not dead. Especially not under my care,” he tuts, coming back over. “Slayer just roughed him up more than I thought. I’d tell him to get a second-in-command that can’t deal so much damage, but I like my head atop my shoulders.”

“Why would Megatron be angry at you for stating that?” Knockout looks around, obviously checking for Soundwave or Laserbeak. He leans in, lowering his voice.

“Because he was thinking with his spike when he hired Slayer into the job, frankly. And I’m not one to get between Megatron and the mecha he’s interested in.”

“I see,” Skyquake says, eyes narrowing into red slits. “And this pertains to his current state… how?”

“No idea.” He lifts a shoulder, looking up when the door pings. “Come in.” Skyquake settles back a little, resuming his brooding as Soundwave walks in.

“Valuable intel—damage dealt—dark energon,” he plays, slinking closer.

“I’m aware of that part. I’m just not sure why he reacted this way.”

“It’s thought that dark energon incites a form of feedback loop. Hyperacute sensory awareness; control is induced via mirroring. The dead are, literally, extensions of the user,” Knockout’s own voice reads off to him. He frowns, leaning back and setting a hand on his hip.

“Yes, that’s my paper on it. What does that have to do with this?”

“Perhaps the awareness caught Skyslayer off guard. He is already new to our biology; maybe this sudden injection of data overwhelmed him. He reacted on instinct, not on thought,” Skyquake muses.

“And you’re thinking Megatron was the source of this. The loop would’ve put his data into Slayer’s head too, after all. Maybe that’s how he did so much damage so fast, too.” He turns back to the bomber, thinking. “It should’ve done some kind of noticeable internal damage. I haven’t studied the stuff as extensively as I’d like, but what I do have down points to an overexertion of the nervous systems.”

“You think it’s frying him from the inside out?”   
  


“Think? ‘Quake, I’ve soldered too many new connections in our Lord’s body to  _ think _ anything of it.”

“—Repair cost?” Soundwave asks.

“Nothing. Just need a day or two. Hopefully, I can downplay the effects enough that he can get himself together without frying half the contacts in himself.” He throws a glance over his shoulder at them as he reaches back to hit the override. “Well? Shoo. I need space.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _ANGST_  
>  _EMOTIONS_  
>  RATCHET ALMOST CRIES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cried writing this actually, "almost" nothing.

Atop the flight deck of the  _ Nemesis,  _ Skyslayer paces. Rain pummels his plating in sheets, wings sending useless data and aching mildly at the dip in barometric pressure. Still, he paces restless little circles.

His mind is too occupied on Megatron to even acknowledge the harsh rainstorm. Things are escalating. He needs  _ help. _ As much as he hates it, he simply didn’t know enough about what was happening to the warlord to fix him. Even  _ with  _ his new… firsthand experience.

Fixing… repairs… Knockout isn’t much help—he’d just gossip and pry into things that weren’t his business. But perhaps he could utilize his pseudo-diplomatic immunity to ring up another medic.

He settles on that thought and takes off into the storm.

—

“Milord,” Knockout calls, expression pinched. He cows a little under Megatron’s unsettling gaze.

“Yes?” Knockout turns, looking to Soundwave patiently. The spy plays a bit of footage of Skyslayer flying off. The video clip ends, and a line displays across his mask.

“Ratchet. It’s… it’s me. Skyslayer. I want to talk, privately. No guns. Somewhere we won’t be disturbed. Send me your bridge coordinates and I’ll meet you.” The audio cuts in a slight hiccup of static, and Knockout resumes looking very pinched.

“He’s leaving for the Autobots again,” the medic pouts. Megatron doesn’t smirk as he typically would, but his tone holds amusement.

“Ah, Knockout. I’m afraid you’re wrong. Even if that comm didn’t include his reasoning, I know he will return. His attachments here are too powerful for him to ignore. He will be back—of his own volition.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Feed a bird enough times, and it will begin to roost,” he answers cryptically. Knockout looks to Soundwave, who is silent as ever. The medic just shrugs and starts to meander away. Soundwave stays, tilting his helm just slightly. He plays another recording.

“ _ That purple crap is making it so hard to love you.” _

“I suspect that is indeed his reason.”

“ _ Th—hard to love you. L-learn to share,” _ the recordings stutter. Megatron shoots a mild glare to his communications officer.

“I know you’ve got a vested interest in him,” he retorts. “I already agreed to  _ share _ —but you should know that.”

“ _ Feed a bird enough times,” _ his own voice echoes to him. With that, he seems satisfied in his badgering, and walks off to his console.

—

“Tell me why we agreed to meet with him again?” Bulkhead asks.

“He requested something of great personal importance. I promised him a long time ago to help if he ever wanted to talk. At the time I was just upholding my oath, but…” Ratchet’s expression darkens slightly as they step into the spongy green ground of a local-ish old growth forest. Trees crowd in and underbrush grows thick.

“So what? We’re just  _ available? _ You saw how bad he spooked Optimus. How much he resisted. He’s no neutral party. Not anymore.” His conviction is strong, and Ratchet’s turmoil becomes visible.

“I know. Just let me have this,” he murmurs under his breath. Bulkhead looks puzzled, maybe even opens his mouth to ask him to clarify, when they finally encounter Skyslayer.

...Or rather, they see his violet eyes peering at them from the dark. Ratchet is rooted in place and Bulkhead reflexively switches a hand for a blaster. He sighs, slowly coming out and looking around. Actually  _ looking around. _   
  
“Thanks for coming alone, guys,” he mutters, wings shifting at his back. Ratchet narrows his eyes, slowly approaching. Slayer looks down to him, expression not nearly as wild as he expected. Frankly, he just looks  _ exhausted, _ plain and simple. He waves him down, setting a hand on his jaw and tipping his head to examine his secondary eyes. They’re purple too. “This is part of the problem.”

“You mentioned Megatron is starting to behave more erratically than usual.”   
  
“Yeah. Something’s happening; that dark energon in him is waking up and it’s pulling on him. I don’t know how to explain it.” He slowly lifts away from Ratchet’s gentle, cool hands. Bulkhead scoffs lightly, mistrustful.

“What do you mean pulling on him?”

“He just said he can’t explain it,” Ratchet huffs, tugging the flier back down and removing his mask and visor. He pulls out a penlight and checks his responses, murmuring in approval. “You aren’t concussed or anything, at least.” He sighs and lets go of his face, leaning to examine his vents.

“It started happening a little while ago—after I encountered Airachnid.” Ratchet freezes and looks up at him, eyes narrow.

“That was several weeks ago.”

“Yeah, well, I wanted to figure out what it was before jumping the gun.”

“You could’ve called earlier to  _ ask.” _

“I didn’t want to have it just be nothing and waste your time.”

“So you let a warlord—a  _ volatile _ warlord—go unchecked for several weeks with dark energon running rampant in his system. He infects  _ you _ and  _ that’s _ when you decide to call me?”

“...Yes.” Ratchet plucks a wrench from a pocket and whacks him on the head.

“You  _ idiot!” _ He jerks and grabs his head, eyes irising narrow for a split second.

“Owww. Hey, I never said I was the brightest crayon in the box, just the most violent.”

“Fantastic.” He rolls his eyes, putting the wrench away and looking to Bulkhead in a  _ Primus-help-him _ sort of expression. The other Autobot just shrugs.

“So can you fix me? And him?”

“I’m morally obligated to deny fixing the monster that caused all this, but oathbound to at least try.” He expels a sigh, sobering and giving Slayer a sweep with his scanner. “... Hm.”

“What?”

“You’ve been altered since I last checked you out. Only way I can be sure everything’s alright is a deeper-level scan, which would involve bringing you back to base. I doubt Optimus would approve, but…” He switches the scanner out for a small console and checks something before opening the base commlink.

“Ratchet. Is everything alright?”

“Yes. I just need a bridge back.”

“Where did you go?”

“To help a friend.” The bridge opens a few meters away and Bulkhead goes first. Ratchet clamps a hand on Skyslayer’s wrist, narrowing his eyes in an unspoken ‘ _ stay out of trouble’. _

—

Optimus is at the bridge controls, Arcee loitering near the medbay. Bee chirps from his spot over in the kids’ usual hangout, but everything goes painfully quiet when they see who Ratchet is pulling along.

“I see we have a…  _ guest,” _ the Prime notes, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I’m just here to get help. Don’t do shit to me, and I won’t do shit to you,” he replies sourly. Arcee squints at Ratchet in disbelief, and he shakes his head subtly.

“Same deal as the first time,” he says, cutting through the makeshift medbay. He nudges the bomber in, making sure it’s all set up and stepping back to the control panel. He looks happy to be helping, if nothing else; even Arcee can respect that and hangs back. “You’ve been repaired,” he notes, tapping through a couple screens.

“Knockout’s work.” Ratchet scoffs, shaking his head a bit and looking up at him.

“It’s a miracle you’re still functioning, then. Overblown plastic surgeon…” he mutters, more insults inaudible. Skyslayer tips his head back, chuckling away at that. There’s something warm in his spark that seems to tint everything rose and haze away the bad. He even feels that funny tic in his tailfin fade. Ratchet looks up at him, squinting thoughtfully. “What did you just do?”

“I didn’t do anything.” He lifts his head, confused.

“Well, you’ve just…  _ disengaged _ the dark matter from your system. Completely neutralized it. It’s still present, but inert.” He looks back down to the console, and Slayer looks over to the other Autobots, puzzled.

“Medic speak. Don’t ask me,” Bulkhead says, waving a hand.

“You turned it off,” Ratchet sighs, never looking up.

“Oh,” Slayer says, and then awkwardly rubs the spot over his spark. “Cool,” he offers. “I don’t know what I did, though.”

“It looks like it’s triggered by certain neural pathways firing. Maybe a certain motion, or thought.”

“I remember him stabbing me, and it was like something in me snapped. I don’t know  _ what, _ but my next coherent thought was wondering where he was. Turns out I…” He looks away at this, pulling Ratchet’s attention up. “I put him to the edge,” he mutters, clearly not happy about it.

“The edge…” Ratchet looks thoughtful a second before it clicks and his eyes go  _ wide. _ “Oh, Slayer,” he breathes. “You didn’t.”

“I did. I saw him laying there. He wasn’t much better off than he was when I showed up.”

“You inflicted as much damage as a spacebridge explosion?” Arcee says, more than a little incredulous.

“Guess so. I shouldn’t be surprised, but…” He shrugs, expression pinching. “Not being surprised and not being happy are two different things.” He pauses, exhaling slowly. “I don’t feel good,” he mumbles. Ratchet blinks at him, and then realizes what’s happening and comes up, working quickly.

“Look at me. I’m going to sedate you. We just found the pathway that triggers it. I need you to breathe, okay? Just relax as much as you can and focus on me. Don’t think about anything else.” He’s already pushing the plunger, holding his quivering arm by the elbow. He looks dazed, other hand clenching and relaxing intermittently.

“It’s him, isn’t it? It’s…” Ratchet’s thrown as he swings an arm wide, eyes going right back to that unhealthy hue. “ _ Infector. Monster.  _ HE DID THIS TO ME!” Bulkhead and Optimus jump into action, pinning him back even as Arcee plucks up the needle, pulling it out and trying to make sure it didn’t break off. Then, she goes to check on Ratchet.

“I’m fine,” he says, getting up and going right back to Slayer’s side. “The sedative should kick in shortly. I didn’t think that this would be his response. I’m sorry.”

“You’re fine,” Bulkhead grunts, struggling to keep his arms still.

“I’ll kill him,” Slayer hisses. “I’ll kill him and put him so far underground he’ll never find his way back. I’ll feed him to the fucking Icon, you watch! He—”

“Shh,” Ratchet says, interrupting his frantic rambling. Like some part of him knows it won’t get to talk again.

“You shut up,” he mutters, starting to go lax. “Sh… shut up. You don’t know…” He hiccups, suddenly growing sad. “You don’t know what it’s like to love someone… and have them do this. I’m supposed to be…  _ incorruptible.” _

“I know,” Ratchet soothes, nudging Optimus aside to come up and gently stroke his helm, running fingers over the vent there. “You’re still good, Skyslayer. Trust me, okay?” Purple eyes, shimmering with emotion, turn to him. He looks ill. “You’re just sick. And I’ll help you. I promise.”

“Okay,” he says, very softly. His eyes are going dim. “I trust you, Ratchet. You’ve… been nothing but kind to me.” He smiles a little, finally dropping unconscious on the slab. Bulkhead slowly lets go of him, stepping back with his hands ready.

“He’s under,” the medic reports quietly. He doesn’t look up from the darkened eyes.

“He’s just sick?” Arcee asks, tone testy. “Ratchet—”

“I know what I said, and I know I’m right.” He looks up, expression carefully controlled. “He’s just sick. This is just a symptom. We need to find the disease. He said Megatron was behaving strangely; his exact words were ‘ _ pulling on him’.” _

“Pulling on him,” Optimus echoes, thoughtful. “Do you think he’s referring to—?”

“I do.” He sighs, never ceasing in running his hand across the scuffed green helm. “I think that alignment is happening. We need to look into this deeper.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :^)

Megatron’s image pops onto the comm  _ again. _ Seventh time today. Ratchet groans, dropping his head into a hand as he taps the ‘accept’ button.

“Autobot base,” he drones. “Megatron, for umpteenth time—”

“Give him  _ back,” _ he interrupts.

“—We don’t have him.”

“Soundwave can’t pick up his signal. That means he’s at your base, cloaked by  _ your  _ cloak.” There’s a grating, scraping noise, like the old warlord’s gears failing to mesh for the briefest moment. “I want him  _ back.” _

“Oh my god,” Slayer moans from the slab he’s been sleeping on. “Megsy. Fuck off, darling.” Ratchet almost snorts audibly. “I’m here, I’m just chilling out. Get the stick out of your ass and relax. I’ll be back by tomorrow.”

“Skyslayer.” His whole demeanor changes like  _ that. _ “If I may ask… what are you doing in the Autobot base? I have a perfectly good medic.”

“Perfectly good at needling into things he shouldn’t,” he retorts under his breath. Ratchet gestures in a wild  _ finally, someone gets it _ motion.

“Slayer,” he wheedles. “Come back to me.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Please?”

“ _ Tomorrow.” _ He points to the ‘end comm’ key, which Ratchet more-than-happily taps.

Unfortunately, it pops right back up. Ratchet looks pained as he accepts it.

“You get one more, and then I’m blocking this commline,” he threatens.

“If you keep calling, I’ll pull you down from that stupid warship myself,” Skyslayer growls. Ratchet chuckles, looking over at a narrowed glare.

“What? I just think it’s amusing that you’re going to try and kidnap Megatron of all mecha.”

“Kidnap? No, no.” He waves a hand, dismissing the idea. “Just bringing him down to talk sense into him. And Optimus, honestly.”

“Are you going to try and  _ reconcile them?!” _ Ratchet nearly squawks. It sounds like he’s barely holding back laughter.

“No. You misunderstand.” He smiles, sweetly. “I’m going to take Megatron’s stupid bucket in this hand, and Optimus’ shiny blue head in this one, and I’m going to  _ knock them the fuck together. _ Maybe see if I can’t spark some actual thought in there.” Ratchet wheezes, even as Megatron scoffs across comm and hangs up.

“And then what?”

“And then I’m going to tell them to  _ make it work.” _

—

Skyslayer’s ignoring Megatron’s dumb cues as he circles like an oversized vulture. The titanic rocky thing lurches, collapses, and falls into rubble.

_ Safe to come down, _ his textcomm reports, and he swings into a steep spiral, crashing down from nearly a quarter of a kilometer up. The Autobots side-eye him as he shakes off the impact, trotting to meet with Megatron.

“...I have a proposal,” he catches, and rolls his eyes.

“You forgot the ring.”

“Not that sort,” he snaps, and Slayer actually backs down. He doesn’t like the hot feeling in his lines. He turns his focus on it, tuning out the half-assed argument between him and Optimus Prime. He does put a handful of bullets into a boulder that seems to  _ squirm, _ putting a stop to that endeavor.

“What can I say?” Slayer sighs, lifting his head. He lowers his arm, but never folds the gun away. Unicron’s gaze feels like it’s prickling at the back of his neck, and he doesn’t like that, either. Optimus is hanging back, armor lowered defensively but not warily.

“What do you mean?” Arcee asks, terse.

“I mean, what can I say to reassure you. I’m something of a liason, aren’t I? Even if I wasn’t paying complete attention, I know it didn’t go well.”

“That is not of your concern,” Megatron grumbles.

“Mhm. So, what can I say?”

“Honestly, your presence helps. I know you can turn him into scrap on a whim. He won’t step out of line, and even if you flip, you hold it back well enough that it might work,” Arcee says, drumming fingertips against her other forearm. Bumblebee buzzes in agreement, giving an emphatic nod. Even Bulkhead grumbles something that sounds like assent.

“I am not so easy to kill,” Megatron protests, but Slayer gives him this funny, one-eyed-glare, and he shuts up.

“Still… I don’t like bridging with him right there,” Arcee says, gesturing to the warlord. “Feels dangerous.”

“We need to go, though, look.” Bulkhead points, motioning to the Unicron golem rising back up out of the dirt.

“Be quick, Autobots,” Optimus urges, comming for a groundbridge.

“How can we trust him?” Arcee asks, unfurling a hand into one of her blasters. Just in case.   
  


“Yeah, like he’s gunna risk his neck for  _ us,” _ Bulkhead complains. “This is so much  _ baloney.” _

“Hardly my nature,” Megatron hisses, seeming delighted at the borderline-insult. “I suggest you go. Consider my offer, Prime; Skyslayer and I will keep it busy.”

“Just go,” Slayer huffs, waving them off. He’s had enough drama for a lifetime.

—

Ratchet’s words kept sticking in his mind.  _ You haven’t built up an immunity like Megatron has. _

Immunity his ass; you just learned to ignore the funny sensation of being intimately aware of your spine. Or your leg. Or anything. He could  _ feel _ his spark stutter at that, and he coughs to clear the sensation. It doesn’t help, much, but Megatron looks to him, a sort of recognition in his gaze.

He tries to ignore the tickle of a foreign something creeping across his shoulder; it’d started when they got here and seemed to inch ever-closer to his core the deeper they trekked. No wonder Megatron had said he could lead the Autobots directly to Unicron’s spark—he was just following the funny feeling down to his  _ own _ spark. 

He suddenly wants to sneeze.

“Unicron is preparing to expel us,” the warlord notes, deadpan. Slayer jerks his head a little, blinking in surprise.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“Look,” Arcee calls, pointing to a seething swarm of purple things. “What  _ are  _ those?”

“Antibodies,” Ratchet says over local comm. “You  _ are _ in a living thing, after all.” Megatron’s the first to react, lifting his arm and dropping a handful without even really aiming. In response, they spread out.

“Oh, they have actual tactics. Perfect,” Skyslayer bitches, unfurling his arm and opening fire. A stray blaster shot from Bumblebee feels like a hot needle in his side, and he can see Megatron flinch the tiniest amount from it too. “Try not to hit everything. Kind of hurts,” he grumps. Arcee gives him a funny look, but it’s interrupted by another antibody lunging at her, borderline kamikaze. She jump-somersaults over it; the resulting explosion knocks her forward and she winds up landing on a parallel cable-bridge some distance down.

At the same time, Bulkhead’s blasters have gone quiet, and he’s squinting  _ hard, _ staring up like he’s fighting nausea or dizziness with everything he’s got. Skyslayer notices, and actually manages to snap an arm out, catching him by his collarpiece as he tips dangerously over the ledge. He focuses on keeping the Autobot up, relying on tension alone.

“Hang on,” Slayer says, gritted, and readies himself to yank him back. Bumblebee whirs, stepping up to fend off antibodies rushing in to hit him in this state. “I gotcha.” He drags back with all his might, all-but-dragging the heavy Autobot back onto the bridge proper.

“Thanks,” he breathes in response.

“Don’t thank me yet. We aren’t done.” He claps Bulkhead on a shoulder, then steps away to resume shooting. Out of a secondary eye, he can see Optimus and Megatron gracefully disposing of more antibodies in cadence, looking quite like they were dancing together. Something prideful wells in his chest, and he isn’t sure if the feeling is really  _ his _ or just bleedover from Megatron.

They work their way closer, fighting rearguard but still shooting in all directions. Over the cacophony, someone yells for Arcee. She hitches a ride on a bold antibody that’d gotten too close, and lands with a tidy backflip, her blasters joining the fray.

A door, huge and dotted in tri-fold symmetry, looms at their backs as they crowd in closer.

Skyslayer ignores it, relishing the punch of heavy-caliber lead. Dimly, he feels Megatron exerting some of his vast skill over a trio of unlucky antibodies. Equally dimly, he hears some kind of sound. Chiming, or ringing; he tips his head, lowering his gun a fraction and listening. Suddenly it is  _ there _ and it is all he can hear, drilling into his mind with the force of a million demon possessions and screaming,  _ where was the screaming?! _

He realizes, dully, that it’s his own. He can feel the scrape of components in his neck as he tries to stop it, warnings and errors blooming in a wave across his HUD and gears catching, cabling wrenching in his chest and shoulders. He’s clawing blind at the air, snarling and choking around whatever’s invading his head. Then, a single sledgehammer-beat and his head’s clearer than ever.

_ Destroy the Prime. _ He turns to Optimus, eyes darting over him even as he turns too, facing the bomber with surprise in his gaze. Megatron moves into his primary eyes’ field of view and he shoves Optimus down, dispelling a looped charge in his cannon into an unlucky line of antibodies.

It feels like a hand being taken off his throat, and he slumps back against the wall, still shaking a little. From exertion or something else, he’s not positive.

“Unicron’s spark lies just beyond,” Megatron reports, sounding no better himself. 

“How are we supposed to get in?” Optimus asks, briefly turning his attention from the fight.

“By tricking Unicron’s defenses into thinking we aren’t a threat.” He steps up to the massive seal, and Slayer feels a flood-rush of  _ friendlyfriendlyfriendlyfriendly _ across the dark energon’s link. He wants to get irritated but the flood subsumes the anger, drowning it in some sickly love. He blinks, distracted by it all, but manages to push himself into walking, following Megatron and Optimus.

“I need you to hold the line as long as you can,” the Prime says, getting a few nods in response.

Slayer’s haze only clears at the acute anger that feels like a knife twisting in his chest, and he looks up, staring into  _ black. _ Stars or something like them pepper his field of view, the void bleeding in black smoke down from the impossibly huge chamber. It’s like staring up into a tiny cloud full of the whole sky, twitching and bleeding further down his vision.

“Woah.”

“...Swiftly, Optimus,” Megatron says, pulling his attention down.

“Tell me I’m not the only one seeing this,” he says, gesturing upward.

“Seeing what?” Megatron asks, unfazed by Optimus suddenly struggling nearby.

“The… the stars,” he tries, but that doesn’t seem like the right word.

“I’m afraid you are. I see some kind of purple world. It’s... beautiful.” One of the tendrils of smoke crawls down, and Megatron seems blind to it, even as Slayer tries to step up and protect him. It’s like being dunked headfirst and completely into ice. That ringing is back, and he feels  _ something  _ massive-unstoppable-immutable handshake with his neural net, all at once. He feels himself, curled into a small ball, wings and claws soft and new.

_ You are not the one I guided. _ It feels across him, hot pain registering from all the sensors in a thick wave. He can’t scream. He sees Optimus, though, and Megatron; one’s still down, braced on his hands and knees and struggling with every iota of his will. The other’s doing the same, just on his feet, arm raised and blade out.

“Fight it,” he hisses to Megatron, across the link. It’s all he can do, trapped in his own systems like this. That’s what it is, after all; Unicron wasn’t great with illusions against human minds, it seemed. Unicron sees, of course, and forces Megatron’s arm down another inch toward Optimus’ unguarded back. He pulls it back, screaming at the spring-locks in his forearm to reset and retract the weapon. It works. With a slick scrape, the sword is gone, and he even snarls words of defiance up at the cosmic horror.

It’s like watching a wedge that’s gone blunt trying to slice something open. Slayer tries to force his body up, willing past the heaviness of his limbs and the sensation of thick gel clogging every gap in him. Megatron growls, the noise twisting into a howl of pain. The stars are everywhere now, shuddering and twitching like something alive even as they overpower and force the warlord into unconsciousness.

_ Destroy the Prime. _ It rings and echoes in his head, bouncing around a million times. He does what he does, and ignores it steadfastly as he  _ ignored  _ that massive chunk missing from his side during that last spat in Hell as his human self. Megatron’s energy was spooling through him now, and it was agitating the Argent. He’d have to expel it somehow, and he was getting an idea even as he inched closer and closer to Optimus.

“Prime, listen to me,” he says, hoarse. “I’ve got a hell of charge built up right now. I’m gunna put it out in one big, ugly sneeze. I need you to use that burst to take out Unicron.” Speech feels like labor, and he drags himself weakly to his side, rolling onto his back and watching red Argent lightning arc and snap around his chassis.

“Okay,” Optimus says, soft and strained. There’s a hiss, a crackle, a horrible noise that sounds like metal dragged on earth. Slayer tips his chin up, eyes spitting static for a moment as he fixes them on Megatron, rising up like a marionette lifted by the strings.

**You cannot defeat me, disciple of Primus.**

“Fuck!” he yelps, curling suddenly and clutching his helm iron-tight. It was in his head as much as he was hearing it, and it made his already hypersensitive systems feel scrubbed  _ raw. _

**I have transcended physical being.**

Oh, lord,  _ that _ —that wasn’t pain. He screams, uncurling in a violent slam and arching, clawing at the ground as everything in him felt smashed, crushed under an unabating wave of  _ bliss. _ It was everything he/they wanted, it was everything he/they had worked for,  _ fought _ for. It was the gateway to godhood, the steps up to power enough to eliminate the final contender.

**By my will alone, ALL upon this world will fall into CHAOS.**

“N-now, Prime!” he shouts, managing to squeeze it past everything. He releases his tentative hold on the Argent, feeling the full power of a bolt go snarling off him, connecting with Optimus and sending his lights red for a fraction of a second as he throws his chest open, Matrix looking quite like it  _ exploded. _ Megatron’s thrown back by the burst, but is safe. Alive. Unicron screams, the noise shrinking and shrinking and shrinking until all that’s left is a shower of purple sparks to show he was even present.

Slayer feels tiredness, old and bone-deep settle in. He stays on his back, staring up at the empty ceiling. The stars were gone. A shame, he wanted to look at them again…

“It worked,” Optimus says, flat. He’s knelt beside him. Megatron scrambles over, eyes wide.

“We’ve done it.  _ You’ve _ done so much, my slayer,” he says, holding his hand almost reverently.

“The… stars are gone,” he breathes, reaching up with a shaky hand to point. “I… always thought of you when… I looked at them. Your eyes.” He rolls his head to look at Megatron. The warlord seems to realize what’s happening, and shuffles closer, moving to lift him.

“Skyslayer. Listen to me. I want to bond with you, right now.”

“We talked about that… didn’t we? You said… it was the final step in becoming—”

“ _ Conjux endurae. _ Yes. I want to perform the final act with you.”

“Okay. I… I love you, Megatron.”

“I love you too.”


End file.
